LIBH 

ry  of  f- 


THE 


"  PEASANT  BARD."  /?,*•*- 

ow/i.  a?.  , 


Sing  of  NEW-ENGLAND,  favored  land! 
Her  customs  dear — her  social  band — • 
Her  everlasting  hills  that  stand 

Above  her  meads, 
As  when  at  first,  by  His  command, 

They  reared  their  heads! — 

VISION  OF  POESY,  page  7fi. 


GREENFIELD  : 

PUBLISHED  BY  M.  H.  TYLEE. 

1852. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852,  by 

JOSIAH  D.-CANMNG, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


GREENFIELD: 
C.  A.  MIRICK,  PRINTER. 


PREFACE. 


GRATEFUL  to  an  indulgent  public  for  the  favor  extend 
ed  to  him  in  former  publications  of  his  poems,  the  author 
respectfully  tenders  the  present  revised  selection. 

To  the  arioso  strains  of  the  exquisite  poet,  or  the  un 
intelligible  profoundness  of  the  laureat  bard,  he  neither 
inclines  nor  aspires.  Content  will  he  be  should  his  rea 
ders  discover  a  vein  of  homely  but  honest  COMMON  SENSE 
running  through  his  pages  ;  and  he  begs  those,  super- 
critically  disposed,  to  take  into  consideration  the  want  of 
'  elegant  literary  leisure'  in  one  whose  daily  life  consists 
of  the  laborious  whoa- haw-buck  avocations  of  the  farmer  ; 
one  who,  in  place  of  the  classical  toga  of  the  scholar,  is 
clad  in  the  chequered  garb  of  the  plough. 

It  is  while  pursuing  the  labors  of  the  farm,  amidst  the 
melodies  of  nature  and  her  varied  scenery  of  mountain, 
flood,  and  field  ;  it  is  amidst  the  vicissitudes  of  the  sea 
sons, — the  shooting  blades  of  spring,  the  leafy  honors  of. 
summer,  the  gorgeous  dyes  of  autumn,  and  the  drift- 
bearing  blasts  of  winter, — that  the  MUSE  has  blessed  the 
author  with  her  whispered  inspirations.  She  saw  him  a 
scion  of  revolutionary  patriots  who  '  sought  with  the 
sword  placid  rest  under  Liberty,'  and  bade  him  cherish 
their  memory,  and  fan  with  Vestal  vigilance  the  fire  of 


PATRIOTISM  -which  warmed  their  own  noble  hearts.  She 
saw  him  looking  with  pity  upon  the  zeal  of  the  fanatic, 
and  with  scorn  upon  the  heart-sickening  insolence  of  the 
vain  and  hypocritical,  and  taking  him  kindly  by  the  hand, 
led  him  far  from  the  one,  and  lifted  him  high  above  the 
other.  She  bade  him  bow  with  adoration  only  to  the 
great  GIVER  of  gifts,  good  and  perfect. — the  wellspring 
of  Light,  Liberty,  and  Happiness.  She  has  wedded  his 
Harp  to  his  Plough,  and  in  the  stillness  of  seclusion  has 
mingled  for  him  the  '  sweet  with  the  useful.' 

Should  the  following  pages  serve  faintly  to  picture  to 
the  citizen  the  simple  beauties  of  rural  life  ;  should  they 
furnish  entertainment  for  the  leisure  hours  of  his  hardy 
brother  farmer ;  for  the  social  group  of  the  winter's  fire 
side  ;  should  they  serve  to  beguile  the  lone  hours  of  some 
wandering  son  of  New  England,  and  incite  in  his  bosom 
endearing  recollections  of  his  native  land  ;  should  they 
vrake  devotion  to  his  country  in  the  honest  heart  of  the 
patriot, — the  most  ambitious  wish  of  the  author  will  be 
attained. 

JOSIAH  D.  CANNING. 

GILL,  FRANKLIN  COUNTY,  MASS., 
May,  1852. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

A 'MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM/               121 

A  Poor  3Ian's  Epitaph,                .......  166 

An  Autumnal  Leaf, 78 

April, 52 

August, 60 

December,           ..........  67 

Epistle  to  a  distinguished  Friend,             .....  132 

"        to  a  western  Poet, 157 

'•        to  an  Author,               162 

Epitaph, '. '       .  134 

"         on  a  lazy  fellow, 138 

Farewell  to  the  Valley, 135 

February,                 49 

Impromptu  to  Monadnock  mountain, 165 

to  the  Charter-Oak, 167 

"               on  seeing  a  fellow  nodding  in  church,            .         .  147 

Interior  animals  afford  instruction  to  man,               .        .         .  168 

Invocation, 7 

January, 47 

July, 57 

June,              56 

Lays  of  a  Twelvemonth,            .......  47 

Legend  of  the  Isle, 22 

Lines  on  the  death  of  little  Clara,               83 

"       to  a  Bullet  from  the  field  of  Waterloo,           ...  87 

"       to  a  Bee, .95 

"       addressed  to  "  Old  Knick,"            203 

March,                51 

May,               54 

My  Brother's  ocean-grave, 85 

November,             65 

1* 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

October,             63 

Potatoes, 10S 

September, 62 

Thanksgiving  Eve,         ........  9 

The  Farmer  to  his  Plough, 91 

The  Harvest  moon, 93 

The  Thresher  and  the  Rat, 98 

The  Trout  upon  the  shallows, 106 

The  Moon  in  the  Wilderness,              13U 

The  Prairie  Cock, 1 15 

The  Way  it  is  done, 1  IS 

To  a  Red  Squirrel, 10-1 

To  a  Wild  Rose, 81 

To  an  old  pair  of  Breeches,             .         .         .         .         .         .  114 

To  my  old  Dog, .116 

Vision  of  Poesy,              70 

INDEX  TO  SONGS. 

ASHUELOT  RlVER,  ..... 

'By  the  deep  nine  !'  184 

Columbia  rules  the  Sea,  .         .  1**6 

Down  by  the  brook  where  willows  green, 

Freedom's  own,  

Hoe  out  your  row  ! 

July  Fourth, I'-'O 

Lament  of  the  Cherokee, 

Leyden  Glen, 211 

The  Adieu,     . 

The  Banks  of  Maumee,  174 

The  Eagles  of  Columbia, 

The  Minute-man, 

The  Old  Farmer's  Elegy, 

The  Old  Pod-auger  Days, 

Washing  by  the  brook, 

Where  Housatonic  gently  threads, 

«  Where  Liberty  dwells,  there  is  my  country,' 


INVOCATION. 


YE  nymphs  of  song,  ye  spirits  sweet,  who  haunt  my  native  hills, 
Ye  who  in  tiny  shallops  glide  down  all    their  tinkling  rills  ; 
Whose  voices  soft  at  eventide,  when  mild  is  LUNA'S  beam, 
One  hears  amid  the  willows  green  beside  the  lonely  stream  ; — 

Come  from  your  mountain  dwellings,  those  airy  summits  high, 
That  look  into,  and  take  their  hue  from  out  the  azure  sky  ; 
And  moor  your  fairy  vessels,  scooped  from  acorns  of  the  tree, 
And  from  your  tuneful  streams  come  up  and  listen  unto  me  : — 

Ye  've  given  me  a  soul  of  song,  ye  've  given  me  a  lyre, 
And  touched  a  true  New-England  heart  with  patriotic  fire  ; 
And  fain  for  thee,  my  country,  would  I  strike  an  honoring  strain, 
And  sing  sweet  Ash-u-e-lot's  banks,  and  lift  Mo-nad-nock's  mane  ! 

Ah,  must  that  lyre  in  silence  hang  upon  the  willow  bough! 
My  hand  is  heavy  grown  with  toil,  and  calloused  by  the  plough  ; 
And  when  I  lift  it  for  a  song,  and  out  its  numbers  bring,   [string ! 
How  rude  the  touch,  and  harsh  the  note  that  struggles  from  the 

When  from  '  the  loop-hole  of  retreat'  abroad  I  cast  a  look, 
And  see  the  candidates  that  FAME  is  jotting  in  her  book  ; 
And  when  I  note  the  eager  host  that  throng  to  catch  her  eye, 
Faint  is  my  heart,  and  small  my  hope  her  majesty  to  try. 

Then  oft,  in  reckless  mood,  1 7ve  thrown  beside  the  plough-share 

bright, 

That  lyre,  resolved  the  furrows  deep  should  hide  it  from  my  sight, 
Determined  never  to  attempt  again  the  tuneful  strain  : 
But  when  the  plough  came  round  about,  up  turned  the  lyre  again. 


VIII.  INVOCATION. 

Now,  something  in  my  breast  has  fixed  the  resolution  strong 
Henceforth  to  cherish  with  my  life  the  sacred  gift  of  song  ; 
My  country  dear  may  lend  an  ear  ;  but  e'en  if  she  refrain, 
I  '11  have  some  music  on  life's  march,  if  but  a  private  strain. 

So  be  content,  ye  Nymphs  of  Song,  around  my  ways  to  dwell ; 
Tho'  all  unseen  by  common  eyes,  I  '11  mark  your  presence  well ; 
I  '11  see  you  on  the  tempest's  blast,  and  on  the  zephyr's  wing, 
I  '11  hear  you  in  the  torrent's  roar,  and  in  the  bubbling  spring. 

Up  to  the  mountain's  breezy  top  attend  me  as  I  go, 
When  calm  the  blue  expanse  above,  and  sweet  the  scene  below  ; 
When  Autumn  lingers  o'er  the  land  in  gorgeous  tire  complete, 
Her  '  coat  of  many  colors'  fine,  and  silver-shod  her  feet. 

I  '11  note  the  farmer  at  his  toil,  the  heavy  burthened  wain 
That  slowly  wends  its  homeward  way  across  the  harvest  plain  ; 
The  cottages  that  dot  the  vale  like  scattered  flakes  of  snow, — 
The  homes  of  freemen, strong  and  brave, — inspire  me  these  to  show. 

Aid  me  to  paint  the  social  joys  that,  when  Thanksgiving  comes, 
Spring   sweetly  round    the  festive  board    in  these  New-England 

homes  ; 

The  tales  about  the  blazing  hearth,  when  evening  bars  the  doors, 
And  hollow  in  the  chimney-top  the  voice  of  winter  roars. 

Aid  me  to  read  my  COUNTRY'S  lore,  so  rich  in  classic  themes  : 
Her  mountains,   forests,   lakes,   and  vales,  and  Indian-christened 

streams  ; 

While  living,  I  will  give  to  her  the  boon  of  my  regard, 
And  dying,  leave  for  her  in  love  the  blessing  of  a  BARD. 


THANKSGIVING  EVE. 

•'  They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle  wide." — ROBERT  BURNS. 

THANKSGIVING  !  hail  thy  festive  cheer, 
Thou  day  to  all  New-England  dear ! 
When  Labor  by  his  mattock  throws, 
And  gives  his  toil-strained  nerves  repose  ; 
And  Care,  for  want  with  whom  to  stay, 
Goes  off  to  have  a  holiday. 
When  scores  of  craking  fowls  must  die, 
To  make  the  needful  chicken-pie  ; 
And  turkies,  twirling  at  the  fire, 
Roast,  as  the  de'il  will  roast  a  liar ; 
And  busy  dames  and  lasses  fair, 
The  Pilgrim's  yearly  feast  prepare. 
When  Plenty  gives  from  out  her  store 
A  dainty  bit,  to  glad  the  poor, 
And  Want,  with  e'en  his  stingy  grip, 
Is  lavish  of  his  only  fip. 
When  forge  and  smithy,  shop  and  mill, 
In  Sabbath  quietude  are  still, 
And  artisans  of  every  grade 
Are  in  their  very  best  arrayed  ; 


10  THE  HARP  AND   PLOW. 

And  farmers,  in  their  homespun  own, 
Would  scorn  the  wardrobe  of  a  throne. 

Thanksgiving  !  day  of  all  the  year  ! 
Ancient  and  honored  custom  dear  ! 
When  foes  with  kindlier  feelings  greet ; 
When  friends,  long  separated,  meet 
To  knit  anew  the  ties  that  bind 
Kindred  to  kindred,  mind  to  mind. 
When  from  the  towers,  in  morning  time, 
Is  wafted  forth  the  tuneful  chime  ; 
When  all  the  true  its  call  obey, 
And  tune  their  hearts  to  praise  and  pray, 
And  up  to  Zion's  courts  repair 
To  dwell  upon  GOD'S  mercies  there. 

To  thee,  thy  sons,  New-England,  whom 
Fortune  allures  abroad  to  roam, 
Will  oft  revert,  in  times  like  these, 
'Cross  miles  of  land  and  leagues  of  seas, 
And  o'er  again  in  memory  live 
Thanksgiving's  blessed  day  and  eve. 

Silent,  yet  swift,  the  stream  of  Time 
Goes  surging  down  to  Lethe's  clime  ; 
And,  swiftly  as  the  current  flows, 
The  Seasons  pass  to  their  repose. 
Spring,  from  her  gaudy  shallop  green, 
Flings  to  the  shore  a  flowery  scene  ; 
And  Summer,  from  her  leafy  barge, 
Casts  forth  her  mantle  fair  and  large. 


THANKSGIVING   EVE.  11 

Next,  borne  upon  a  northern  air, 
Comes  Autumn  with  her  yellow  hair. 
Thro'  all  her  shrouds  the  breezes  blow, 
Now  wild  and  shrill,  now  lorn  and  low, 
Proclaiming  that  '  abaft  the  beam,' 
Comes  Winter,  whitening  all  the  stream. 

The  FARMER,  with  a  careful  eye, 
Notes  each  successive  passing  by  ; — 
The  cold  may  chill,  the  heat  may  pall, 
Still  he's  abroad  to  welcome  all ; 
And  when,  at  length,  as  now,  has  come 
Autumn's  last  moon,  and  '  harvest  home,' 
Complacently  he  sees  afar 
In  the  cold  north  the  wintry  war, 
And  bides  the  advent  of  the  storm 
With  thankful  heart,  and  fireside  warm. 

Already  has  the  sounding  flail 
Of  harvest  over  told  the  tale  ; 
The  miller,  o'er  his  hopper  leaned, 
With  practised  eye  the  seed  has  scann'd, 
Declaring,  as  he  stirs  it  o'er, 
He  scarce  has  seen  as  good  before. 
The  flocks  are  gathered  in  their  fold  ; 
The  herds  protected  from  the  cold ; 
The  bees,  within  their  waxen  streets, 
Are  feasting  on  their  treasured  sweets ; 
And  all  things  made  secure  and  warm 
That  frost  might  seize  upon  to  harm. 


12  THE   HARP  AND   PLOW. 

Now  Phoebus,  like  a  wearied  wight 
Who  scarce  can  wait  the  coming  night, 
Cuts  short  the  day,  and  hastes  to  rest, 
Wrapped  in  the  vestments  of  the  west. 
Now  steals  the  hill-fox  from  his  den, 
Through  piney  wood  or  darksome  fen  ; 
But  pausing,  ere  he  dares  to  prowl, 
He  lists  afar  the  watch-dog's  howl 
Ascending  from  the  vale  below, 
And  with  his  bark  defies  his  foe. 


And  now  the  night-created  star 
Is  beaming  from  its  height  afar ; 
And  palely  in  the  northern  skies 
The  mystic  signal-fires  arise  ; 
For  in  raid  heaven  the  moon  displays 
Her  silver  lamp  of  bleaching  rays. 
Here  headlong  down  the  rocky  steep 
The  rill  descends  with  chainless  leap, 
And  chafing,  in  its  fretful  course, 
Talks  to  the  night  in  accents  hoarse  ; 
There  by  the  wide  expanded  stream 
The  kindling  bonfires  brightly  gleam, 
And  o'er  the  ice  the  skaters  glide 
With  rapid  pace  and  darting  stride  ; 
While  Echo  on  the  shore  has  lent 
Her  aid  to  youthful  merriment ; 
And  merry  bells  along  the  road 
Tell  mirth  is  every  where  abroad. 


THANKSGIVING  EVE.  13 

Turn  from  the  thronging  streets  of  town 
Where  gas-lamps  shine  when  suns  go  down, 
And  where,  despite  their  magic  wicks, 
Full  many  '  kick  against  the  pricks.' 
Turn  from  the  sound  of  viols  sweet, 
The  measured  tread  of  tripping  feet, 
Where  pleasure,  like  a  night-rule  born, 
Dies  in  the  rosy  flush  of  morn. 
Turn  ye  within  the  cottage  walls 
When  evening  on  Thanksgiving  falls, 
And  doff  your  hat,  and  take  a  chair, 
And  be  ye  '  free  and  easy'  there. 
No  compliments  are  strained  to  please ; 
No  forced  politeness  murders  ease ; 
No  boorish  coarseness  mars  a  feature 
Of  common  sense  and  right  good  nature. 

0,  blessed  eve,  to  converse  given ! 
0,  foretaste  of  the  bliss  of  heaven ! 
There's  nothing  wanting  but  a  tongue 
To  sing  it,  as  it  should  be  sung. 

The  fire  upon  the  hearth-stone  glows  ; 
The  circle  wide  before  it  grows ; 
The  tale  is  told,  the  song  is  sung, 
Wit  falls  unstudied  from  the  tongue. 
The  thought  humane  is  cast  abroad  ; 
The  beggar  on  the  frozen  road, 
The  sailor  on  the  stormy  seas, 
The  Indian  'neath  the  leafless  trees, 


14  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

The  child  of  Want,  where'er  he  be, 
This  evening  shares  their  sympathy, 
And  Pity,  gentlest  child  of  heaven, 
Breaks  unto  these  her  blessed  leaven. 

The  parents  joy  again  to  see 
Their  widely  scattered  family 
At  home  with  happy  greetings  meet. 
Like  pheasants,  in  secure  retreat, 
Whom  winding  horns,  and  coursing  hounds, 
Have  frighted  from  their  morning  grounds  ;- 
Who  dress  their  plumes,  no  missing' one, 
Forgetful  of  the  '  slaughtering  gun.' 

In  the  arm-chair  that  fronts  the  fire, 
There  sits  the  patriarchal  sire, 
Dressed  in  his  garb  of  youthful  prime. 
All  for  the  love  of  olden  time. 
There's  Christian  hope  and  heavenly  peace 
In  every  feature  of  his  face  ; 
There's  strength,  and  fields  of  labor  won 
In  oak-like  arms  and  palms  of  bone ; 
There's  wisdom  in  his  hairs  of  snow ; 
There's  honor  on  his  lofty  brow  ; 
His  eyes  with  youthful  brilliance  shine, 
While  in  his  cue  there's  c  auld  lang  syne.' 

The  dame,  good  woman,  by  his  side, 
Just  fifty  years,  this  night,  a  bride  ! — 


THANKSGIVING   EVE.  15 

Some  angel,  or  good  spirit  other, 

Paint  for  me  this  New  England  mother  ! 

Reader,  think  of  perfection  human, 

And  you'll  be  thinking  of  the  woman. 

Her  placid  face,  her  tidy  cap, 

The  clean  check' d  apron  o'er  her  lap  ; 

No  friend  of  Fashion,  like  some  daughters 

Born  midst  New  England's  vales  and  waters. 

Would  they  the  fickle  jade  forsake 

And  this  good  grandame  imitate  ! 

The  very  heathen  then  should  know 

Of  angels  dwelling  here  below. 

On  either  hand  this  ancient  pair, 
Are  ranged  the  stalwart  and  the  fair : 
The  daughter  given  to  another 
Who  '  sticketh  closer  than  a  brother,' 
And  with  him  from  a  distance  come 
To  spend  Thanksgiving  day  at  home, 
And  let  her  doting  parents  scan 
Her  wee  edition  of  a  man  ; 
The  cousin,  bright-eyed,  buxom,  merry, 
Her  cheeks  the  rose,  her  lips  the  cherry  ; — 
(Forbidden  fruit !  so  was  the  apple 
That  Adam  easy  found  to  grapple ;) 
The  comely  youth  to  manhood  grown, 
No  man  of  cloth,  but  nerve  and  bone  ; 
Of  that  true-hearted  stock  a  scion, 
That  dauntless  faced  the  British  lion  ; 
Such  as,  New  England,  may  thy  God 
Forever  raise  upon  thy  sod. 


16  THE   HARP   AND    PLOW. 

And  "wide  their  gallant  branches  spread, 
Nursed  by  the  ashes  of  thy  dead  ! 

See  in  yon  chimney  corner  wide 
A  sanguine  lad,  his  mother's  pride, 
A  restless,  romance-loving  child, 
Not  wholly  staid,  nor  wholly  wild, 
Preparing  for  to-morrow's  sun, 
The  snowy  wilds,  and  dog  and  gun. 
There,  as  the  bullets  swift  are  rolled 
And  giving,  from  his  brazen  mould, 
His  whispers  to  another  tell 
How  by  his  aim  some  victim  fell ; 
How  late  the  partridge  he  did  win 
Full  half  a  furlong,  in  the  glen ; 
Or  how  the  river-fowl  in  spring 
His  bullet  crippled,  on  the  wing  ; 
And  skillful  feats  as  strange  as  true, 
Which  he  had  done,  and  yet  could  do. 

And  here,  too,  is  an  elder  son, 
For  years  from  home  an  absent  one. 
He  hails  from  western  lands  afar 
Where  Fortune  lifts  her  blazing  star  ; 
Backwoodsman-like  he  gives  a  zest 
To  all  the  romance  of  the  West, 
And  with  a  spirit-stirring  air 
Tells  of  his  wild  adventures  there  ; — 
The  hair-breadth  'scape  from  bloody  death 
What  time  he  stopped  the  panther's  breath  ; 


THANKSGIVING    EVE.  17 

How,  camped  one  night  beyond  the  border, 
His  bed-mate  was  the  mas-sa-sau-der,* 
And  dreaming  of  some  danger  nigh 
He  woke  to  hear  its  'larum  cry. 
Or  how  some  guardian  angel's  hand 
Brought  safe  his  frail  canoe  to  land, 
When  in  the  dark  and  hollowed  wave 
The  howling  demon  scooped  his  grave  ; 
What  scenes  his  sinking  thoughts  beguiled 
When  wildered  in  the  dismal  wild ; 
How  the  dark,  pensive  Indian  chief 
Came  to  him,  like  a  drifting  leaf, 
In  silence  heard  his  grievous  tale 
And  took  the  wanderer  in  his  trail ; 
O'er  mazy  miles,  with  tireless  pace, 
Guided  him  to  the  wished-for  place 
As  straight  as  flies  the  homeward  bee, 
Nor  sought,  nor  would  accept  a  fee. 


And  there  is  seen  a  pauvre  neighbor, 
Worn  out  with  care  and  thriftless  labor, 
Invited  to  enjoy  a  treat, 
And  with  his  bitter  mix  a  sweet. 
This  night  his  grateful  heart  o'erflows  ; 
Unwonted  cheer  dispels  his  woes, 
And  kindly  notice  makes  him  vain — 
He  feels  himself  a  man  again. 

*  A  species  of  the  rattlesnake  ;  so  called  by  the  western  Indians. 
2* 


18  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

His  youthful  days  return  anew, 
His  visions  and  possessions,  too  ; 
Tells  what  he  was  and  might  have  been 
Had  not  that  nonplus  come  between 
Himself  and  the  desired  thing, 
And  made  a  subject  of  a  king. 

Sweet  vision  of  domestic  bliss  ! 
Hath  eye  seen  aught  surpassing  this  ? 
Could  bard  or  painter  who  would  dress 
A  scene  of  human  happiness, 
'Mongst  the  few  patterns  of  the  kind 
Exemplar  more  befitting  find  ? 

Vision  of  Peace  !  beneath  the  tree 
And  palmy  boughs  of  Liberty. 
How  well  these  social  scenes  contrast 
With  days  of  wo  and  peril  past ! 
Befitting  time — Thanksgiving  Eve — 
A  patriot's  lessons  to  receive  ! 

The  grandame  speaks  :  her  numbers  tell 
The  memories  which  her  bosom  swell  ; 
She  paints  afresh  days  long  agone 
When  wives  were  left  with  firesides  lone, 
To  hear  the  booming  battle-gun 
And  think  of  husband  or  of  son  ; 
And  wait,  with  longing  and  with  fear, 
Of  victory  or  defeat  to  hear  ; 
Nerving  their  hearts  to  learn  that  they 
Were  mourners  from  that  woful  day. 


THANKSGIVING   EVE.  19 

The  grandsire  is  discoursing,  too  ; 
Himself  one  of  the  lingering  few 
Like  land-marks  showing,  when  we  gaze 
On  revolutionary  days. 
A  martial  ardor  fills  his  eye 
When  pointing  back  to  times  gone  by  ; 
For  though  grey-headed,  just,  and  good, 
His  veins  are  filled  with  '  soger'  blood  : — 
He  counts  his  father's  cuts  and  scars 
Received  in  old  colonial  wars  ; 
And  hums  the  air  some  soldier  made 
When  Wolfe  on  glory's  bier  was  laid. 
The  verse  uncouth,  and  faulty  rhyme 
Blend  with  an  old  heroic  chime. 
His  father  loved  it  for  the  sake 
Of  memories  it  was  wont  to  wake, 
And  aye  would  sing  it  when  he  told 
Of  Wolfe  so  brave  and  Montcalm  bold. 

He  lights  his  pipe  ;  and  next  proceeds 
With  revolutionary  deeds ; 
Which,  like  the  man  in  Trojan  cause, 
'  He  saw,  and  part  of  which  he  was.' 
Tells  many  facts  with  interest  rife 
Connected  with  that  noted  strife 
Ne'er  honored  with  historic  pen  ; 
Names  dates,  and  places,  arms  and  men ; 
Tells  of  his  feelings  when  his  gun 
He  levelled  first  at  Bennington, 
And  felt  upon  his  cheek  the  breath 
Of  swift-winged  messenger  of  death  ; 


20  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

With  feeling  lingers  for  a  time 
On  Andre's  fate,  and  Arnold's  crime  ; 
And  dwells  upon  the  soldier's  woes 
At  Valley  Forge,  midst  winter's  snows. 

List  to  the  veteran  !  he  extends 
A  benediction  to  his  friends : — 
Remember,  next  to  Heaven's  Throne, 
Your  country  claims  you   as  her  own. 
To  one  is  adoration  due  ; 
The  other  asks  devotion  true. 
Thanks  to  the  God  of  Battles  !  now 
Before  no  other  king  ye  bow  ; 
No  other  king  you'll  have  if  ye 
Do  riot  abuse  your  liberty, 
Nor  lose  in  party's  bitter  waves 
Your  fathers'  altar,  and  their  graves. 
New  England  points  her  every  son 
To  Bunker's  height  and  towering  stone  : 
Beneath  is  patriotic  dust ; 
Above  the  changeless  God,  and  just ; 
And  bids  his  aspiration  be, 
'  GOD  and  my  COUNTRY,  now  and  aye  !' 

Unheeded,  thus  the  moments  fly  ; 
And  every  hour  that  dances  by 

Prolongs  the  social  scene  ; 
As  when  we  read,  and  love  to  learn, 
Each  page  we  scan,  each  leaf  we  turn, 

A  new  delight  we  glean. 


THANKSGIVING   EVE.  21 

The  king  in  state  upon  his  throne 
May  wish  the  sun  in  heaven  gone, 

May  curse  the  wakeful  moon  ; 
Compared  with  him,  how  blest  are  they 
To  whom  Time's  flitting  pinions  play 

A  sweetly  moving  tune  ! 

Now  goes  around  the  farmer's  cheer, 
Fresh  from  the  garner  of  the  year : — 
Autumnal  fruits  of  choicest  savor, 
The  old  brown  mug  of  pleasant  flavor  ; 

And,  lo  !  the  Muse  awakes  ! 
Oh  !  reader,  not  the  classic  jade 
Who  serves  her  time,  and  does  by  trade 

What  nature  better  makes. 

As  when,  in  olden  time,  at  feasts 
Where  lords  were  hosts,  and  knights  were  guests. 
Returning  from  the  boisterous  chase, 
Or  battle's  grim  and  gory  place, 

Around  the  board  they  drew  ; 
Then  while  the  banquet  scene  inspired, 
And  every  loyal  heart  was  fired 

Its  prowess  to  renew  ; 
The  bard  was  summoned,  to  prolong 
The  glories  of  the  day,  in  song, 

And  of  its  hero  tell ; 
And  loud  the  plaudits,  as  he  sung, 
Among  the  midnight  echoes  rung, 

And  hi«;h  his  sounding  shell. 


22  THE   HARP   AND    PLOW. 

So  now  around  our  humbler  board, 
Altho'  uo  knight,  or  lofty  lord, 

Or  laurel'd  bard  are  seen  ; 
Yet  there  are  hearts  as  brave  and  true 
As  e'er  from  titled  scions  grew, — 

By  nature  nobler,  e'en. 

And  one  who  learned  his  harp  to  string 
In  the  green  fields,  in  time  of  spring, 
When  music  from  the  tuneful  bough 
Beguiled  his  labors  at  the  plough  ; 
Who  learned  to  strike  a  rural  key, 
When  sweetly  o'er  the  faded  lea 
The  Autumn  wind  breathed  slow  and  clear 
Its  requiem  for  the  dying  year, — 
Essays  a  song  ;  attention  give 
And  hear  the  story  of  the  eve  : 


LEGEND   OF  THE   ISLE/ 

Is  there  a  man  who  loves  a  marvelous  tale — 

Some  dreamy  legend  of  enchanted  lands, 
As  loves  old  Tantivy  October  ale, 

Or  I  our  river  and  its  silvery  sands  ? 
Lend  such  attention  as  that  tale  demands. 

The  efforts  of  the  muse  less  notice  claim  ; 
The  faltering  chords  bespeak  her  awkward  hands. 

Wrapped  in  her  homely  robe,  with  progress  lame, 
She  slowly  takes  the  path  which  others  run  to  fame. 

*See  Note  A. 


THANKSGIVING  EVE.  23 

Lot  learned  muses  wander,  for  a  theme, 

In  Orient  lands  and  fields  of  classic  lore  ; 
Mine  draws  her  subject  from  her  native  stream, 

And  strikes  her  harp  upon  its  pleasant  shore. 
In  artful  plumage  neither  will  she  soar 

To  taste  the  spring  which  Helicon  distils ; 
Dearer  to  her  the  vine-clad  cottage  door, 

Whose  threshold-seat  the  evening  minstrel  fills, 
And  hears  his  echoed  strains  among  the  neighboring  hills. 

And  thou,  Connecticut,  whose  waters  first 

Baptised  thy  minstrel  a  New  England  born  ! 
Purest  of  streams  !  yea,  pure  as  those  that  burst 

From  the  sweet  well-springs  of  the  realms  of  morn 
And  fab'lous  Fancy's  flowery  meads  adorn. 

I  think  on  those,  when  musing  o'er  thy  flow, 
Who  wrought  in  boyhood  in  thy  fields   of  corn  ; 

Some,  distant  far,  pursuing  Fortune  go ; 
Some,  in  a  sailor's  grave,  sleep  Ocean's  waves  below. 

Say,  has  the  rover  from  thy  shores  so  free 

Found  realms  thine  OAvn  in  beauty  to  outvie  ? 
Did  not  thy  dying  '  wanderer  of  the  sea,' 

He  who  with  noble  firmness  e'en  could  die, 
Recall  thy  scenes  with  memory's  vivid  eye, 

And  sigh  to  think  he'd  view  them  never  more  ! 
Roll  seaward,  waters,  where  his  ashes  lie 

Whose  memory  consecrates  for  me  thy  shore  ; 
And  blend  your  lays  with  mine  your  noblest  to  deplore  !* 

*  See  Note  B. 


24  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

I. 

Few  but  have  heard  of  famous  Captain  Kidtl, 

He  who  for  plunder  sailed  upon  the  sea ; 
Of  all  the  many  wicked  acts  he  did, 

The  which  to  tell  were  ill-befitting  me  ; 
And  how,  at  last,  he  '  hanged  upon  a  tree,' 

When  Justice  overtook  him  in  his  crimes  ; 
And  in  a  song  gained  immortality ; — 

His  name  I  mention  in  my  marvelous  rhymes  ; 
I  sing  of  ancient  men,  a  tale  of  olden  times. 

ir. 
Go  view  the  scene  of  action  whence  I  draw 

The  theme  which  constitutes  my  faithful  lay  ; 
Near  where  a  prophet  bard  a  vision  saw, 

And  sang  about  it  in  a  by-gone  clay, 
An  Island  rises  in  the  stream  midway  ; — 

A  lonely  isle,  where  spirits  of  the  drowned, 
Forgetful  of  their  homes,  may  seem  to  stray, 

Wet  from  the  chiming  waves,  whose  drowsy  sound 
Plays  dirges  round  the  shores  of  their  enchanted  ground. 

in. 
Oft,  when  a  boy,  by  Fancy  led  to  stray 

Alone  along  the  river's  leafy  shore, 
What  time  the  musk-rat  left  his  haunts  to  play, 

And  all  the  labors  of  the  day  were  o'er, 
How  loved  I  on  the  darkening  scene  to  pore  ! 

How  sweet  on  yonder  isle  was  closing  day, 
Among  the  noble  elms  I  see  no  more  ! 

Stern  maledictions  choke  my  pensive  lay  : — 
Frost  nip  the  villain  hands  that  cut  those  elms  away  ! 


THANKSGIVING   EVE.  25 

IV. 

To  yonder  isle,  for  years  it  was  believed, 

Kidd  once  ascended  with  his  bandits  bold, 
And,  glutted  with  the  spoils  they  had  achieved, 

They  buried  there  a  chest  containing  gold  ; 
And  by  tradition,  indistinct,  't  was  told 

How  on  that  chest  a  chosen  brave  they  slew 
To  guard  the  treasures  in  their  iron  fold. 

From  fiction  it  may  be,  the  story  grew 
And  what  remains  to  sing  I  do  not  vouch  is  true. 

V, 

Upon  our  shores,  far  back  in  other  years, 

There  lived  a  simple-minded,  worthy  soul ; 
His  life  a  constant  round  of  hopes  and  fears, 

As  one  alternate  on  the  other  stole  ; 
lie  might  have  '  drowned  his  sorrows  in  the  bowl ;' 

His  hopes,  poor  man  !  he  might  have  cherished  there  ; 
But  how  to  reach  bright  Zion's  blessed  goal, 

Was,  after  all,  'twas  thought,  his  chiefest  care ; 
And  now  of  heaven's  joys  no  doubt  he  has  his  share. 

VI. 

A  thin,  spare  man  he  was,  of  anxious  look, 

Of  stooping  figure,  and  of  middling  size  ; 
A  strict  old-fashioned  reader  of  the  Book, 

Yet  one  not  blessed  with  unbeclouded  eyes  ; 
The  one  dim  talent  it  was  his  to  prize  ; — 

Believer  he  in  '  signs,'  in  lucky  stars  ; 
Was  always  clad  in  antiquated  guise  ; 

Lacked  both  the  courage  and  the  force  of  Mars ; 
And  always  came  off  vanquished  in  domestic  jars. 


26  THE   HAKP   AND    PLOW. 

VII. 

Such  was  the  man  the  hero  of  our  song ; 

A  superstitious  being,  fond  of  talk, 
"Who  would  beguile  the  snowy  evenings  long 

With  deeds  of  those  who  forth  '  at  midnight  walk 
To  bathe  in  bi-ains  the  murderous  tomahawk  ;' 

His  own  experience,  too,  he'd  linger  o'er, — 
How  witches  used  his  choicest  plans  to  balk, 

To  blast  his  crops,  and  haunt  his  barns  before 
lie  nailed  the  horse-shoe  fast  above  the  folding;  door. 

o 

vnr. 
One  night  this  dreamer  on  his  pallet  lay  ; 

His  limbs  were  weary  but  he  could  not  sleep ; 
He  pondered  o'er  the  hardships  of  the  day, 

How  very  sore  it  was  to  stoop  and  reap 
When  burning  suns  slow  thro'  the  heavens  creep ; 

To  glean  a  living  with  unceasing  toil, 
While  favored  ones  their  slavish  minions  keep 

To  till  for  them  the  fructifying  soil ; — 
Till  with  ungenerous  rage  our  hero's  blood  did  boil. 

IX. 

0,  why  should  Fortune  on  a  few  bestow 

Her  shining  treasures,  with  a  lavish  hand  ? 
Fill  up  their  coffers  till  they  overflow, 

And  turn  to  gold  for  them  the  very  sand  ; 
And  crown  their  worthless  names  with  titles  grand  ? 

While  the  poor  man,  to  ceaseless  sorrow  born, 
Sees  Ruin's  taloned  whelps  around  him  stand, 

Himself  defenceless  in  their  midst,  forlorn, 
Moaning  a  prayer  for  pity,  but  exciting  scorn. 


THANKSGIVING   EVE.  27 

X. 

0,  is  there  not  for  me  some  gift  in  store 

Shall  heap  with  yellow  gold  nay  empty  board  ! 
How  would  my  heart  the  giver  good  adore  ! — 

(Rather  than  mammon  may  he  be  the  Lord  !) — 
As  never  yet  a  being  was  adored. 

How  often,  then,  for  charitable  deed, 
Should  beggars'  blessings  on  my  head  be  poured ! 

The  child  of  Want  should  on  my  bounty  feed, 
And  humble  worth  no  more  a  generous  patron  need. 

XI. 

The  purse-proud  fool,  who  scarcely  heeds  me  now, 

Should  wither  at  my  look  of  cold  disdain  ; 
Respectful  friends  should  in  my  presence  bow, 

And  slaves  be  proud  to  wear  their  master's  chain — 
He  who  could  make  them,  and  unmake  again ; 

A  lordly  pile  should  fill  the  wishful  eye 
Where  now  a  cottage  peeps  above  the  plain, 

And  stranger  passengers,  when  going  by, 
Should  stop  and  ask  his  name,  who  built  yon  mansion  high. 

XII. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  filled  our  hero's  head, 

As  night  apace  on  circling  moments  flew ; 
No  wonder,  then,  that  sleep  his  pillow  fled, 

Since  such  bright  visions  for  the  while  seem  true. 
But,  oh  !   they  wither  faster  than  they  grew  ! 

Hard  'tis  for  man  his  destined  lot  to  shun, 
To  leave  the  road  that  he  must  stumble  through ; 

Youth  is  the  rising,  age  the  setting  sun — 
The  evening  often  closes  as  the  morn  begun. 


28  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

XIII. 

Sudden  a  fancy  fired  the  schemer's  brain, 

Bright,  e'en  at  first,  and  growing  still  more  fair ; 
He  felt  at  once  a  respite  from  his  pain, 

And  gave  a  free  discharge  to  every  care 
Save  the  bright  castle  building  in  the  air, 

His  sanguine  ravings  waked  his  ancient  bride 
Who  heard  the  oath  that  he  unconscious  sware, 

And  deemed  her  good  man  did  the  night-mare  ride 
Through  some  infernal  place,  where  demons  foul  abide. 

XIV. 
Morn  rose  at  last  above  the  eastern  chain 

Of  hills,  that  mark  the  river's  winding  way  ; 
Connecticut,  that  stole  beneath  the  plain, 

Gave  to  the  air  her  misty  mantle  grey  ; 
And  bared  her  silver  bosom  to  the  day. 

Up  sprang  the  black  bird  from  her  dewy  nest 
And  warbled  sweet  aloft  her  early  lay  ; 

While  hark'ning  puss  his  playful  mate  caress'd, 
And  Summer  smiled  around,  in  all  her  verdure  dress'd. 

xv. 

Now  in  these  days,  upon  the  neighboring  shore, 

There  lived  a  man  of  whom  strange  things  were  told  : 
A  wizzard,  at  the  least,  if  nothing  more, 

Who  could  the  darkest  mystery  unfold, 
And  for  whose  soul  the  de'il  a  writ  did  hold  ; 

For  thus  did  gossips  of  the  day  declare  : — 
He  for  the  subtle  art  the  same  had  sold  ; 

And  when  he  died,  the  Regent  of  the  Air 
Would  come  to  claim  his  own,  and  take  him, '  hide  and  hair.' 


THANKSGIVING  EVE.  29 

XVI. 

If  sheep  were  missing  from  their  wonted  fold, 

Or  roosts  were  plundered,  would  the  loser  go 
And  see  the  conjuror,  he  might  be  told 

About  his  loss,  and  how  effected,  too, 
Before  himself  had  said  that  it  was  so ! 

'T  is  true,  some  hinted  it  was  plain  to  see 
Why  the  old  man  should  all  about  it  know ; 

But  others  thought  it  still  a  mystery, 
For  fortunes,  too,  he  told,  and  like  strange  things  did  he. 

XVII. 

Scarce  had  the  thirsty  sunbeams  drank  the  dew, 

Save  where  it  lay  beneath  some  leafy  screen, 
When,  to  consult  the  conjuror,  Ballon, 

Our  hero  issuing  on  his  way  was  seen, 
With  bold  determination  in  his  mien. 

He  with  his  shadow  seemed  to  run  a  race ; 
(And  what  a  shadow  was  the  goal,  I  ween  !) 

Hope  lit  the  rigid  features  of  his  face, 
And  oft  his  gesturing  arm  bespoke  the  mental  chase. 

XVIII. 
When  doting  man  is  led  by  meteor  whim, 

What  bright  successes  on  his  thoughts  await ! 
lie  deems  the  Avorld  was  made  alone  for  him, 

And  he  the  spared  favorite  of  fate, 
Whom  Heaven  journals  '  good,'  and  Nature,  *  great.' 

So  Jack,  that  bears  the  phosphorescent  fire, 
Deludes  at  night  the  poor  inebriate  ; 

He  sees  at  last  the  faithless  lamp  expire, 
And  bides  a  wretched  time  in  fathoming  the  mire. 
3* 


30  THE   HARP   AND    PLOW. 


At  length  upon  a  hermit-cottage  door, 

The  good  man  did  the  scripture  promise  test ; 
Cold  perspiration  ran  from  every  pore, 

And  fear,  with  hope  alternate,  filled  his  breast, 
As  with  a  trembling  hand  the  latch  he  press'd : 

Slowly  the  door  reluctantly  gave  way 
To  usher  in  the  dark  magician's  guest ; 

But,  standing  like  a  frighted  deer,  at  bay, 
He  wist  not  how  to  act,  and  knew  not  what  to  say. 

xx. 

The  light  dim-struggling  thro'  the  dingy  panes, 

Gave  to  the  smoky  walls  a  twilight  hue ; 
A  wind-harp  sang  in  melancholy  strains 

Whene'er  without  the  passing  zephyr  blew 
And  softly  stole  the  casement  crevice  through. 

Beneath  the  Avindow's  dungeon-colored  ray 
A  dark,  unvarnished  board  was  spread  to  view  ; 

Death's  head  and  cross-bones  in  its  centre  lay, 
Which,  when  our  hero  saw,  he  wished  himself  away. 


Beside  the  board,  in  antiquated  chair, 

The  conjuror  was  seated  at  his  trade. 
lie  turned  him  round,  and  with  a  fixed  stare, 

From  head  to  foot  his  speechless  guest  surveyed, 
Till  a  grim  smile  upon  his  features  played  ; 

Then  ope'd  a  volume  huge  of  mystic  lore, 
Whose  yellow  pages  Faustus  might  have  made  ; 

And  while  he  conned  his  uncouth  lesson  o'er, 
The  stranger  heard  a  tongue  he  never  heard  before. 


THANKSGIVING   EVE.  61 

XXII. 

Then  lifting  up  his  eyes  from  off  the  book 

He  on  his  guest  a  look  of  science  threw  : — 
k  lie  that  would  fish  must  firstly  bait  the  hook  ; — 

Xo  fishes  nibble  here  until  you  do.' 
Oiu1  hero  took  the  hint,  and  forthwith  drew 

From  out  his  fob  the  heart-case  that  he  tanned, 
When,  years  agone,  a  fatted  ox  he  slew  ; 

Its  contents  o'er  with  wishful  eyes  he  scann'd, 
And  dropped  a  part  thereof  into  the  wizaard's  hand. 

XXIII. 

Then  with  tho  air  of  one  who  breathless  all 

Awaits  the  footsteps  of  the  fated  deer, 
He  leaned  for  succor  on  the  friendly  wall 

And  listened  to  the  language  of  the  seer : — 
'  Adversity's  cold  winds  have  blown  you  here  ! 

So  drifts  a  helmless  hulk  upon  the  seas  ; 
But  let  the  thought  your  drooping  spirits  cheer, 

The  very  wind  that  does  the  beggar  freeze 
Wafts  others  gaily  on  to  honor  and  to  ease.' 

xxiv. 

"  Then  let  it  blow !'  exclaimed  our  doting  man, 

Whose  tongue,  restrained,  had  burst  aloose  at  last  ; 
4  I'll  weather  well  the  tempest  if  I  can, 

Whoever  else  may  founder  in  the  blast. 
My  colors,  see,  they're  nailed  upon  the  mast ! 

The  pirate's  crimson  stain  is  on  their  fold  ; 
Come,  look  with  wizzard  ken  into  the  past, 

For  by  your  subtle  arts  I  would  be  told 
Where  bloody  Kidd  concealed  that  chest  of  glittering  gold. 


32  TUB    IIA11P   AND   PLOW. 

XXV. 

The  conjuror  took  his  hazel  wand  in  hand, 

And  figured  for  a  while  upon  the  floor ; 
Anon  his  horoscope  and  globe  he  scann'd, 

Then  fell  to  muttering  his  fancies  o'er  : — 
'  Bootes  seems  begrimmed  with  human  gore, 

And  fiery  Mars  with  tenfold  lustre  burns ! 
Dire  meteors  fly,  and  fearful  brilliance  pour  ; 

Saturn,  all  greedy,  for  his  children  yearns  ; 
And  Juno  to  the  earth  her  shapeless  Vulcan  spurns !' 

XXVI. 

Meanwhile,  to  every  point  from  east  to  west 

His  wand  did  like  magnetic  needle  veer  ; 
At  length  it  halted,  trembling  to  a  rest. — 

'  Bellum  horrifficmendiim  !'  cried  the  seer, 
*  The  charmed  treasure  which  you  seek  is  near  ! 

Why  nods  to  me  the  river-god  his  head  ? 
Ah  !  cujus  caput  ? — yes,  I  see  it  clear  ! — 

Hard  by  the  spot  where  you  were  born  and  bred, 
The  pirate's  booty  lies  within  its  island  led.'' 

XXVII. 

'  Does  it  ?  indeed  !'  again  our  hero  spake. 

*  Somehow  I  must  have  dreamed  as  much  before  ; 
But,  tell  me,  wondrous  man,  without  mistake, 

The  how,  and  when,  I  may  obtain  the  ore  ; — 
Here,  take  my  meagre  purse  ! — I  would  't  were  more.' 

(0,  bright  anticipation  !  in  thy  sun 
How  melts  the  heart  long  frozen  to  the  core ! 

How  freely  forth  the  stingy  pennies  run 
When  dollars  are  at  stake,  and  guineas  may  be  won  !) 


THANKSGIVING  EVE.  33 

XXVIII. 
So,  while  he  spoke,  the  wizzard's  face  grew  black, 

And  scowling  o'er  his  book  with  earnest  gaze, 
lie  looked  like  hunter  searching  out  the  track, 

Where  doubtful  signs  his  straining  eyes  amaze  ; 
Or,  like  a  wrecker,  peering  thro'  the  haze, 

When  on  the  deep  he  hears  the  drowning  cry  ; — 
lie  scann'd  the  changing  moon,  her  ancient  ways, 

The  pictured  stars  he  read  with  curious  eye  ; 
Then  to  his  guest  he  spoke,  and  thus  his  sage  reply : — 

XXIX. 

'  There  is  a  charm,  which  I  can  scarce  dispel, 

That  holds  the  treasures  which  you  would  obtain  ; 
Cut  barken  to  perform  what  I  shall  tell, 

And,  ten  to  one,  you  will  not  hear  in  vain ; 
Depart  therefrom,  you  '11  sing  another  strain  ! — 

The  fifteenth  night,  that  from  her  sky  serene, 
September's  moon  shines  on  the  harvest  plain, 

Rise  from  your  bed  the  midnight  hours  between, 
And  seek  the  island  shore  all  noiseless  and  unseen. 

XXX. 

4  Upon  its  southern  point  there  grows  an  elm — 

It's  braved  the  floods  and  storms  for  many  a  year — 
Which  pilots  recognize  with  starboard  helm 

When  up  the  stream  their  freighted  barks  they  steer. 
The  midnight  moon  will  shine  upon  it  clear ; 

Twelve  paces  from  its  base,  by  measure  made, 
The  shadow  of  its  forks  will  plain  appear  ; 

Upon  that  spot  descend  with  bar  and  spade, 
For  bloody  Robert's  wealth  is  underneath  you  laid. 


34  tfllE   IIARP   AND   PLOW. 


XXXI. 

'  Most  horrid  sounds  and  sights  you'll  hear  and  see, 

Which  might  the  lion-hearted  terrify, 
But  on  your  part  let  perfect  silence  be  ; 

All  unconcerned  your  labors  earnest  ply, 
Whatever  fills  your  ear,  or  meets  your  eye  ; 

The  golden  treasures  are  by  silence  won  ; 
And  should  you  speak,  you'll  know  the  reason  why. 

Keep  all  a  secret  —  tell  it  unto  none  ; 
And  now  depart  from  hence,  and  see  that  all  is  done.' 

XXXII. 

With  lightsome  heart  our  hero  left  the  spot 

Where  he  such  precious  knowledge  had  obtained  ; 
The  birds  sang  sweetly,  but  he  heard  them  not  ; 

From  viewing  Nature's  charms  his  eyes  refrained, 
He  saw  them  not  —  for  all  his  thoughts  were  chained 

Upon  one  mental  and  enchanting  view  ; 
In  wild  anticipation  he  had  gained 

More  than  was  buried  by  the  plundering  crew, 
And  treasure  even  more  than  far-famed  Croesus  knew. 

XXXIII. 

At  length  the  hopeful  journey  and  the  day, 

With  him  alike  were  tending  to  a  close  ; 
But  still  from  home  content  a  while  to  stay, 

Upon  a  neighbor  hill  a  seat  he  chose, 
That  watched  above  the  sleeping  vale's  repose. 

Like  molten  silver  flowed  the  river  there  ; 
That  blessed  island  from  its  bosom  rose, 

Where  he  was  soon  the  midnight  feat  to  dare, 
And  free  his  heart  and  hands  of  all  their  cankering  care. 


THANKSGIVING  EVE.  35 

XXXIV. 

His  pipe  he  lit.     The  vapor  upward  curled, 

And,  wreathing,  wrought  round  his  bewildered  head  ; 
Its  fragrance  stole  his  senses  from  the  world, 

Save  one  fond  thought  by  recollection  led 
To  watch  the  treasures  in  their  '  island  bed,' 

And  half  invoke  a  blessing  on  the  seer ; 
Till  in  his  dreamy  trance  he  fancied 

The  clink  of  dollars  in  his  ready  ear, 
And  woke  enraged  to  find  his  nibbling  sheep  were  near. 

xxxv. 
Shall  I  digress  to  sing  thee,  Indian  weed  ! 

And  praise  thy  virtues,  slandered  tho'  they  be  ? 
The  muse  to  thee  before  has  blown  her  reed, 

As  many  who  have  heard  will  witness  me  ; 
But  thou  art  welcome  to  her  minstrelsy  ! 

For  she,  who  now  about  the  smoker  sings, 
At  times,  without  thine  aid,  how  dull  is  she ! 

But  let  thine  incense  rise ! — on  glancing  wings 
Like  birds  from  spray  to  spray,  from  thought  to  thought 
she  springs. 

XXXVI. 
Upon  the  hills — back  in  oblivious  year — 

That  o'er  the  Indian  Susquehannah  frown, 
While  starving  hunters  cooked  a  slaughtered  deer 

A  gracious  spirit  camo  from  heaven  down, 
And  first  thy  seed  from  her  fair  hands  was  sown. 

'T  was  to  reward  them  for  a  pious  feat 
She  gave  their  duteous  hearts  this  kindly  cheer  ; 

For,  deeming  that  she  smelled  their  savory  meat 
Thev,  fasting,  offered  her  the  choicest  bits  to  eat. 


36  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

XXXVII. 

On  pious  deeds  a  blessing  is  bestowed. 

Lo !  when  the  grateful  goddess  left  the  place 
A  new-called  herb  earth's  teeming  bosom  showed — 

Great  chief  of  all  the  vegetable  race  ! 
This,  for  thy  origin,  the  Indians  trace. 

Sprung  from  such  wondrous  source,  indeed,  thou  art ! 
For  what  can  sooner  smooth  the  rigid  face 

Or  e'en  than  sleep  more  pleasant  dreams  impart, 
Or  better  lift  the  while  its  burden  from  the  heart  ? 

XXXVIII. 

But  to  our  tale  again.     Day  after  day 

The  sun  slow  dragged  his  intervening  rounds. 
Meantime  our  hero's  farm  neglected  lay  ; 

Rank  weeds  deformed  his  once  well-tended  grounds  ; 
His  fences  fell,  his  cattle  leaped  their  bounds  ; 

Their  master,  vexed  with  more  important  care, 
And  wholly  occupied  with  sir/Jits  and  sounds, 

Would  frequent  to  the  river-shore  repair 
To  sec  if  all  was  right,  and  no  molester  there. 

xxxix. 
His  wife  oft  chid  him  at  this  timely  rate  : — 

'  My  dear !  what,  in  the  name  of  common  sense, 
lias  taken  such  a  hold  on  you,  of  late  ? 

What  plea  have  you  to  ofter  in  defence 
Of  all  your  present  sloth  and  impotence  ? 

Rouse  up,  good  man  !  bestir  your  lazy  feet, 
Or  ruin  sure  will  be  the  consequence  ; 

Unless  you  labor  what  have  we  to  eat  ? 
For  scarcely  when  we  work  the  year's  two  ends  will  meet.' 


THANKSGIVING  EVE.  37 

XL. 

11  'Tis  true  good  wife,  we're  poor,'  he  would  reply  ; 

'  Together  we  in  poverty  were  wed  ; 
But  let  us  never  raise  a  murmuring  cry 

To  Him  who  gives  to  us  our  daily  bread  ; 
Besides,  somewhere  I've  either  heard  or  read 

'  Afflictions  oft  are  blessings  in  disguise;' 
I  doubt  not,  then,  but  we  shall  still  be  fed  ; 

Perhaps  e'en  at  our  door  some  blessing  lies, 
For  One  who  cares  for  us  far  more  than  man  is  wise.' 

XLI. 
How  easily  may  some  contentment  preach, 

When  secret  hopes  meanwhile  inspire  their  tongue ! 
For  even  while  the  good  man  made  this  speech 

A  ragged  urchin  on  his  garments  hung ; 
And,  as  aside  its  sunburnt  locks  he  flung, 

My  poor,  unconscious,  ragged  boy,  thought  he, 
How  oft  in  care  for  thee  my  heart's  been  wrung ! 

But  Fortune  smiles  ;— to-morrow  thou  may'st  be 
Heir  to  such  splendid  wealth  that  kings  might  envy  thee. 

XLII. 
That  very  night  the  good  man  left  his  bed, 

And  putting  on  the  garments  that  he  wore, 
Deemed,  while  the  silence  answered  not  his  tread, 

He  for  the  last  time  shut  a  poor  man's  door. 
Then  silently  he  sought  the  river  shore, 

His  stealthy  footsteps  making  rapid  stride  ; 
Besides  the  spade  and  iron  bar  he  bore, 

'  The  big  ha'  bible,  ance  his  father's  pride,' 
He  hugged  beneath  his  arm  against  his  beating  side. 
4 


38  THE  HARP   AND   PLOW. 

XLIII. 

Still  was  the  hour,  and  sweet  the  midnight  scene  ; 

The  moon  that  in  the  cloudless  heavens  shone 
Sprinkled  with  pearls  the  dewy  banks  of  green 

As  thick  as  grain  by  generous  sower  sown. 
No  sound  was  heard  except  the  wavelet's  moan, — 

All  else  the  dreadful  silence  of  the  grave, 
Save  when  the  otter,  from  his  covert  lone, 

Sought  in  the  stream  his  furry  skin  to  lave, 
And  with  a  sportive  plunge  awoke  the  dimpling  wave. 

XLIV. 
But  he  of  whom  I  sing  was  soon  afloat, 

Viewing  these  glories  with  a  heedless  eye  ; 
Stern,  silent  spectres,  watching  for  his  boat, 

His  fancy  on  the  island  shore  could  spy, 
Which  seemed  to  menace  him  from  drawing  nigh. 

Poor  man  !  how  much  he  felt  no  mortal  knows  ; 
Despite  his  hopes  and  expectations  high, 

He  felt  like  wretch  who  to  his  exit  goes,        [shows. 
When  first  through  glittering  files,  the  waiting  scaffold 

XLY. 
But  screwing  up  his  courage  to  the  test, 

He  on  the  haunted  shore  a  landing  made  ; 
And  with  a  painful  panic  in  his  breast 

The  seer's  instructions,  one  by  one,  obeyed  : — 
Twelve  paces  from  the  elm,  by  measure  laid, 

He  found  all  as  the  conjuror  had  told  ; 
Then  soon  the  turf  was  broken  by  his  spade, 

And  anxiously  he  raised  the  fragrant  mould, 
While  down  his  palid  cheeks  the  perspiration  rolled. 


THANKSGIVING  EVE.  39 

XLVI. 
A  gnarled  root  impeded  his  descent, 

And  seizing  hold  the  same,  in  act  to  draw, 
0,  what  a  groan  the  horrid  silence  rent ! 

You  might  have  heard  his  heart  that  beat  in  awe ! 
It  seemed  a  dead  man's  arm,  -worm-gnawed  and  raw, 

And  from  it  gushed  a  stream  of  stagnant  gore ! 
But,  shutting  hard  his  eyes  on  what  they  saw, 

lie  mentally  a  prayer  repeated  o'er, 
Then  with  renewed  strength  he  fell  to  digging  more. 

XL  VII. 

Anon  came  slowly  moving  up  the  flood 

A  phantom  boat,  and  near  the  island  drew ; 
The  helmsman's  headless  trunk  was  spouting  blood  ! 

Like  murderous  demons  looked  the  spectral  crew, 
As  if  intent  some  fearful  deed  to  do ! 

The  poor  man's  courage  fled  before  the  sight ; — 
Upon  liis  quaking  knees  himself  he  threw 

And  clasped  the  blessed  volume  in  affright ; 
Nor  did  he  quit  his  hold  till  all  again  was  right. 

XLV1II. 

But  how  should  he  obtain  the  '  root  of  evil'  ? 

And  wherewithal  should  he  o'ercome  his  fears  ? 
We  read  '  wi'  usqueba'  we'll  face  the  devil,' — 

Our  man  resolved  to  test  its  virtues  here, 
For  who  but  Nick  himself,  might  next  appear ! 

He  raised  the  potion  to  his  lips,  and  thought — 
'T  was  not,  indeed,  forbidden  by  the  seer ; 

Enough  thereof  to  drown  his  fears  he  sought, 
Then  moistening  his  palms,  he  like  a  Trojan  wrought. 


40  THE    HARP    AND    PLOW. 

XLTX. 

And  now,  a  full  half  hour  he  Avrought  in  peace. 

With  little  to  molest  or  make  afraid  ; 
And  soon  he  looked  to  see  his  labors  cease, 

For  deep  and  wide  was  the  descent  he  made. 
Alternately  he  plied  the  bar  and  spade  ; 

Nor  did  he  once  a  timely  thought  bestow 
Upon  the  ponderous  transfer,  without  aid. 

Full  oft  in  u'eiylity  matters  is  it  so ; — 
A  sequel  often  shows  we've  much  to  learn  and  know. 

L. 
Sudden,  loud  yells  terrific  rent  the  air  ! 

Horror  possessed  the  poor  man's  soul  anew  : 
For,  borne  against  the  tide,  a  man-of-war 

Around  the  bend  below,  came  full  in  view 
With  bellying  sails,  tho'  scarce  a  zephyr  blew  : 

The  wail  of  wo,  of  agony  the  scream, 
Mixed  with  fierce  yells,  and  imprecations,  too, 

Rose  from  her  gloomy  decks  ;  and  it  would  seem 
As  if  the  fiends  of  hell  were  sailing  on  the  stream. 

LI. 
The  digger  leaned  upon  his  spade  amazed, 

And  pressed  his  hand  upon  his  laboring  brain  ; 
All  speechless  on  the  mystery  he  gazed, 

Then  rubbed  his  gloating  eyes,  and  looked  again, 
The  certainty  thereof  to  ascertain  ; 

It  melted  into  moonlight — it  was  gone  ! 
And,  slowly  as  it  passed,  a  solemn  strain 

Yet,  sweet  as  those  by  airy  pipers  blown, 
Alarmed  him  with  the  wild  enchantment  of  its  tone. 


THANKSGIVING   EVE.  41 

LII. 

He  raised  his  bar  on  high,  \vith  reckless  hand, 

And  plunged  it  down,  scarce  knowing  what  he  did ; 
It  penetrated  deep  the  moistened  sand, 

And  rang  beneath  upon  the  ponderous  lid, 
And  clinked  the  golden  ba^s  of  Robert  Kidd ! 

'  By  heavens  !  't  is  here  !'  the  joyful  digger  cried  ; 
'  O  !  did  I  speak  ?' — (as  recollection  chid) — 

While,  with  a  sound  like  Turner's  thundering  tide, 
Forever  from  the  spot  the  charmed  chest  did  glide ! 


LIII. 

Star  of  the  rnorn  !  whose  dull,  inconstant  gleam 

Is  fading  at  the  opening  gates  of  day, 
How  fit  an  emblem  is  thy  waning  beam 

Of  hopes,  once  bright  as  was  thy  rising  ray, 
Now  gone,  like  thee  dissolved  in  light  away ! 

Our  air-built  halls — how  bright,  yet  how  untrue  ! 
Like  the  mirage,  that  with  its  fair  display, 

Oft  landsmen  in  the  cloud  of  ocean  view, 
Which,  while  thereon  they  gaze,  fades  into  heaven's  blue  ! 


The  tale  is  told  ;  and  Luna's  height 
Proclaims  the  lengthened  march  of  night. 
Already  locked  in  sleep's  embrace, 
The  '  sanguine  lad'  is  on  the  chase  ; 
The  '  pauvre  neighbor'  rubs  his  eyes, 
And  ventures  sundry  comments  wise 


42  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

Based  here  and  there  upon  a  word 
By  dint  of  winking  he  has  heard. 
The  grandsire  lights  his  pipe  anew, 
And  calls  the  story  very  true, 
For  he  had  heard  it  years  before, 
Told  by  the  digger,  o'er  and  o'er. 
The  grand  dame,  hitching  in  her  chair, 
To  give  herself  a  wakeful  air, 
Yawns  forth  the  question, — '  let  us  .see  ! 
He  lost  the  money  did'nt  he  ?' 

Renewed  once  more  the  burning  pile  : 
And  social  talk  is  brisk  the  while. 
A  retrospect  of  life  is  made, 
And  future  plans  are  careful  laid. 
Again  is  passed  around  the  treat, 
And  tho'  not  hungry,  you  must  eat, 
Nor  make  refusal  of  the  cheer — 
THANKSGIVING  comes  but  once  a  year  ! 
The  watch-dogs  from  their  kennel  rouse 
And  think  't  is  morning  in  the  house  ; 
And,  whining  at  the  kitchen  door, 
Would  greet  their  master  as  before. 

In  order  next  the  hymn  is  raised ; 
Their  Father  and  their  God  is  praised. 
The  key  is  struck,  and  joined  to  sing, 
Sweet  sounds  the  viol's  tuneful  string  ; 
And  while  the  notes  in  concord  blend, 
Old  Hundred's  well  known  strains  ascend 


THANKSGIVING   EVE. 


THE  HYMN. 

Father  of  all !  to  Thee  we  raise 
The  feeble  tribute  of  our  praise  ; 
0,  turn  to  us  a  willing  ear, 
And  in  Thy  glorious  heaven  hear ! 

The  '  times  and  seasons,'  in  Thine  hand, 
With  plenteous  gladness  fill  the  land  ; 
And  rolling  years,  as  fast  they  move, 
Proclaim  Thy  goodness,  power,  and  love. 

The  blades  of  spring,  the  leaves  of  June, 
The  fostering  sun,  and  ripening  moon, 
The  searing  frost,  the  mantling  snow, 
Thy  wondrous  skill  and  wisdom  show. 

Now,  in  the  garner  of  the  year, 

Our  hearts  are  warmed  with  bounteous  cheer  ; 

And  here,  beside  our  festal  board, 

Be  Thou,  the  Giver  grod,  adored. 

We  thank  Thee  for  a  home,  and  friends, 
For  light  and  life  Thy  mercy  lends  ; 
For  rulers  from  oppression  free  ; 
For  this,  the  land  of  Liberty  ! 

Thou  wert  our  fathers'  God,  and  Thou 
The  only  one  to  whom  we  bow  ; 
Thus,  to  our  children  ever  be, 
The  same,  and  they  the  same  to  Thee. 


44  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

0,  may  New-England  ever  share 
Thy  smiling  love,  Thy  guardian  care  ! 
Be  Thou  her  guard,  Eternal  One, 
While  mountains  stand,  arid  rivers  run. 


The  moon  goes  down ;  the  fire  burns  low  ; 
The  ancient  clock  seems  ticking  slow, 
And  feebly,  with  its  drowsy  powers, 
Is  hammering  out  the  morning  hours. 

The  grandsire,  with  complacent  look, 
Bids  some  one  hand  the  blessed  Book. 
Its  precious  page  aloud  he  reads, 
Then,  kneeling,  in  devotion  leads  ; 
Gives  thanks  that  in  communion  sweet 
They've  been  permitted  thus  to  meet ; 
And  in  befitting  language  prays, 
That  when  on  earth  shall  end  their  days, 
To  them  may  their  THANKSGIVING  prove 
Eternal,  in  the  realms  above. 


NOTES. 


Note  A. — There  is  au  island  in  the  Connecticut  river,  opposite  the 
village  of  Gill,  Mass.,  of  some  magnitude,  known  as  "  Kidd's  Island.'' 
Its  name  originated  in  a  tradition  that  Kidd,  the  noted  pirate,  once 
buried  thereon  a  portion  of  his  ill-gotten  booty  ;  and  this  tradition  is 
founded  upon  the  death-bed  confession  of  the  pirate's  African  cook, 
who  slated,  among  other  things,  that  a  part  of  the  crew  once  ascended 
the  Connecticut  a  good  distance  in  boats,  and  upon  an  island  above 
the  <•' great  falls" — (Turner's  Falls?) — deposited  an  iron  chest  filled 
with  gold  and  other  indestructable  precious  spoils.  Moreover,  that 
after  depositing  the  chest  in  the  earth  the  crew  cast  lots  among  them 
selves,  and  the  one  upon  whom  the  lot  fell  was  slain  upon  the  chest 
and  his  body  buried  with  it.  This  bloody  act  was  supposed  to  create 
a  charm  about  the  repose  of  the  treasures ;  and  thus  guard  it  from 
the  avaricious  attempts  of  future  money-diggers. — However  true  the 
tradition  may  be,  it  matters  not ;  but  certain  it  is  that  a  believer  in 
the  buried  plunder,  many  years  since,  after  due  consultation  with  a 
note,:!  'conjuror,'  made  actual  attempt  to  obtain  the  treasures.  Not 
withstanding  his  sanguine  hopes  of  success  in  the  undertaking, — a 
naturally  superstitious  turn  of  mind,  the  midnight  hour,  the  loneli 
ness  of  the  scene,  and,  above  all,  the  awful  charm  which  was  sup 
posed  to  enwrap  the  iron  chest,  completely  bewildered  the  brain  of  the 
digger  ;  and  to  the  day  of  his  death  he  affirmed  the  truth  of  the  mys 
terious  and  awful  things  said  to  have  been  witnessed  by  him  while 
engaged  in  the  unholy  attempt ;  and  believed  that  his  bar  actually 
struck  upon  the  lid  of  the  chest;  and  that  had  he  not  spoken  in  an  un 
guarded  moment,  he  should  have  rejoiced  in  the  possession  oi  the  un 
told  treasures. 

The  remains  of  the  midnight  excavation  are  still  to  be  seen  by  any 
one  who  may  visit  the  isle. 


46  THE   HAKP   AND   PLOW. 

Note  B. — The  valley  of  the  Connecticut  has  furnished  an  unusual 
number  of  seamen  both  for  the  commercial  marine,  and  the  naval 
service  of  the  United  States.  Many  of  these,  early  cotemporaries  of 
the  writer,  are  t(  in  the  deep  bosom  of  the  ocean  buried.''  Particular 
allusion  is  had  in  this  connection  to  the  death  at  sea  of  Surgeon  WIL 
LIAM  PITT  CANNING  }  of  the  United  States  Navy,  who  fell  a  victim  to 
the  scourge  of  the  tropics  and  devotion  to  his  duty,  on  the  awfully 
memorable  passage  of  the  sloop-of-war  Vandalia,  from  Port-au-Prince 
to  Norfolk,  Va.,  April  7,  1845. — See  lines  entitled  (t  My  Brother's 
Ocean  Grave.1' 


LAYS   OF  A  TWELVEMONTH. 


JANUARY. 

OLD  Time,  the  tireless,  in  his  book 

Has  turned  a  leaf  anew, 
And  bent  thereon  his  solemn  look 

To  make  a  record  true. 
As  fast  successive  years  are  told, 
Do  we  grow  wise  as  we  grow  old  ? 
Is  wisdom  to  the  man  as  coy 
As  when  he  was  a  little  boy  ? 
Shall  he  no  godlike  lesson  learn, 
While,  wheeling  on,  the  planets  burn, 
And  constant,  in  their  wondrous  play, 
Light  for  his  thoughts  a  loftier  way  ? 

The  woodman  in  some  sheltering  nook, 

When  haply  Phoebus  shines, 
Hears  far  o'erhead  the  solemn  airs 

Among  the  shivering  pines. 
There  seated,  thoughtful  and  alone, 

He  takes  his  frugal  meal, 
And  feels  a  sympathizing  gloom 

L'pon  his  spirits  steal ; 


48  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

His  dog,  from  many  a  fruitless  search, 
Comes  to  his  master  there, 

And  seems  his  gloomy  thoughts  to  feel. 
And  would  his  dinner  share. 

From  mossy  trunks,  with  nervous  arm, 

He  rears  the  ponderous  load, 
And  slowly  seeks  his  distant  home 

Along  the  dreary  road. 
The  rising  storm,  from  regions  bleak, 

May  howl  o'er  him  in  wrath, 
The  furious  squall  and  eddying  drift 

May  blind  the  sledder's  path  ; 
Still  on  he  cheers  his  patient  team, 

He  whistles,  shouts,  and  sings  ; 
He  's  thinking  of  the  pleasure  that 

The  fireside  circle  brings. 

At  length,  storm-beaten,  to  his  door 

His  weary  cattle  come  ; 
His  children  peer  the  windows  through, 

And  shout  a  welcome  home  ; 
Gone  are  the  labors  of  the  day, 

The  beatings  of  the  storm ; 
His  features  soften  to  a  smile, 

Beside  his  hearth-stone  warm. 

A  little  child — her  father's  pet — 

Is  seated  on  his  knee, 
And  hears  about  the  squirrel's  nest 

Snug  in  the  hollow  tree  ; 


LAYS    OP  A   TWELVEMONTH.  49 

The  winter-berries  in  his  vest 

She  seeks,  and  calls  them  good  ;   " 
The  woodman  thought  about  his  child 

When  in  the  lonely  wood. 


FEBRUARY. 

U,  WINTER  !  unto  those  who  feel 
No  creature-comfort  unsupplied, 
Whose  garners  swell  with  precious  fruits 

Of  acres  stretching  far  and  wide  ; 
Whose  vestments  warm,  and  dwellings  grand, 
Thy  fiercest  howling  blast  withstand, — 

Thy  presence  pleasure  brings  ; 
The  ride,  the  dance,  the  gay  soiree, 
The  fireside  circle's  bright  display 

O'er  joyless  Nature  flings 
A  veil,  to  hide  her  visage  pale, 
To  stifle  Want's  heart-moving  tale 

Uprising  from  thy  snows. 
And  though  around  the  pampered  form 
Is  girt  the  cloak  of  comfort  warm, 

The  heart  within,  God  knows, 
Is  cold  and  deaf; — it  has  no  ear 
The  plaint  of  misery  to  hear — 

A  supplicated  boon  ; 
'T  is  cold  with  selfishness,  as  now 
Upon  Monadnock's  glittering  brow 

The  light  of  winter's  moon  ! 
5 


50  THE   HARP  AND   PLOW. 

Think,  favored  ones,  •within  the  streets 

So  broad,  where  Plenty  Pleasure  meets, — 

Think  of  the  bye  and  lonely  roads 

That  lead  to  Misery's  abodes  ! 

The  hut,  half-buried  in  the  snow  ; 

The  stolen  fuel,  burning  low, 

O'er  which,  in  fear,  some  squalid  form 

Is  crouched,  its  shivering  self  to  warm  ; 

And  mopes,  and  muses,  starts  and  stares, 

Raves  of  its  woes,  and  plots,  and  swears  ! 

Think  of  the  victim  you  might  save 

From  prison  glooms,  from  felon's  grave  ; 

And  lead,  with  timely  aid  bestowed, 

On  Virtue's  heaven-seeking  road. 

Pray,  favored  ones,  within  whose  door 

The  fierce  temptations  of  the  poor, 

Barred  out  by  Plenty,  never  come 

Like  fiends  to  desolate  your  home — 

Pray,  in  the  heart  of  winter-time, 

For  the  poor  child  of  Want  and  Crime. 

Think  of  the  cot  on  some  bleak  plain, 

Where  Winter's  winds  their  strength  unchain  ; 

Where  whirling  through  the  leaden  skies 

The  smothering  tempest  madly  flics  ! 

There,  hidden  by  the  trackless  snows, 

Poor  suffering  Worth  sustains  its  woes  ; 

Feeds  spirit  from  the  stores  of  faith, 

While  the  poor  body  starves  to  death. 

0,  when  will  Heaven  deign  to  give 
To  those  who  on  its  bounty  live 


LAYS   OF   A   TWELVEMONTH.  51 

And  have  thereof  to  spare, 
A  feeling  heart,  to  cheer  the  sad, 
To  bless  the  good,  to  guide  the  bad, 

And  with  the  needy  share  ! 


MARCH. 

SINCE  Bryant  touched  his  harp  for  thee, 
And  sang  thee  in  his  tuneful  strains, 

How  feeble  the  attempt  in  me 

To  sing  thy  \vinds  and  chequered  plains  ! 

But  still  thy  airs  so  freely  blown, 
Awake  an  answering  chord  ;  to  me 

There  's  music  in  thy  piping  tone, 
Thy  march  is  full  of  melody. 

Thou  call'st  the  rabbit  from  her  lair, 
And  wonder  beams  in  pussy's  eyes ; 

O'er  the  flecked  hill-side,  wearing  bare, 
With  thy  mad  winds  a  race  she  tries. 

Yonder  the  smoky  column  gray 

Is  wreathing  from  the  leafless  wood  ; 

There  the  swart  rustic  boils  away 
The  sugar-maple's  limpid  blood. 

There  in  his  lonely  camp  he  stays 
And  keeps  his  hermit  fire  a-glow  ; 

And  feels  relieved  when  o'er  him  strays 
The  hailing,  reconnoitering  crow. 


52  THE   HARP   AND    PLOW. 

I  mark  yon  early  bird,  and  lone, 
That  plumes  herself  with  idle  bill, 

Or  tries  a  would-be  merry  tone 
To  soothe  thy  wild  and  wayward  will. 

The  squirrel  peeps  from  out  his  cell 
When  haply  Phoebus  warms  the  sky, 

And  hastes  his  moody  mate  to  tell 
Glad  days  are  coming  by-and-by, 

And  they  will  come  ;  e'en  at  thy  heels 
The  lengthened  hours  of  April  tread  ; 

The  earth  her  bubbling  springs  unseals, 
And  verdure  vivifies  the  dead. 

Wild  month  !  thy  storm-encircled  ways 
Mind  me  how  good  men's  lives  are  past 

Clouds  may  begirt  them  all  their  days, 
But  sunshine  glorifies  at  last. 


APRIL. 

THE  winds  are  called  ;  and  pleasant  days 

Are  giving  gladness  now  ; 
They  call  the  cattle  forth  to  graze, 

The  farmer  to  his  plow. 

Upon  the  mountain's  sunward  side 

The  maple  shows  its  buds  ; 
The  elm  begins  its  shadow  wide, 

And  birches  scent  the  woods. 


LAYS   OF   A   TWELVEMONTH.  53 

The  alder  hangs  its  tassels  out 

Down  by  the  water-side  ; 
Beneath  the  spring-enlivened  trout 

Like  darting  arrows  glide. 

The  squirrel  chatters  on  the  bough, 

The  bird  sings  in  the  tree ; 
Abroad  is  early  roaming  now 

The  honey-seeking  bee. 

At  morn  I  saw  a  cloud  like  snow 

Above  the  liver  lie  ; 
The  day-beams  chased  it  from  below — 

It  vanished  in  the  sky. 

And  so,  like  yon  bright  cloud,  thought  I, 

Oft  cherished  fancies  go ; 
Dissolving,  so  they  fade  and  fly, 

As  sure,  but  scarce  as  slow. 

I  saw  at  noon  a  passing  shower 

Steal  o'er  the  landscape  bright ; 
It  brought  to  mind  a  tearful  hour 

When  looking  for  delight. 

I  saw  above  the  sunken  sun 

Rich  clouds  in  beauty  piled  ; 
There,  lingering  when  the  day  was  done, 

Reflected  glory  smiled. 

So  o'er  the  just,  the  good,  the  brave, 

When  all  life's  sails  are  furled, 
Their  virtues,  clustering  o'er  the  grave, 

Still  light  a  darkened  world. 

5* 


54  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

MAY. 

THOU  last,  thou  sweetest  of  the  train 
Of  all  the  vernal  sisters  three  ; 

Whose  vesture  beautifies  the  plain, 
Whose  garlands  rich  bedeck  the  tree, 
Whose  melody, 

Unwritten  from  the  bush  and  bough, 

Is  music's  own  ; — thrice  welcome  thou  ! 

How  like  art  thou  to  life's  young  morn, 
E'er  passion's  fires  begin  to  glow  ! 

E'er  cares,  like  frosts,  lay  bare  the  thorn, 
Or  age  makes  pallid  as  the  snow  ! 
How  like,  I  know, 

To  the  bright  morning  of  his  day 

Whose  sun  casts  shadows  o'er  his  lay  ! 

The  twittering  swallows  wake  the  morn 

Beneath  the  hospitable  eaves  ; 
The  cock  blows  shrill  his  clarion  horn  ; 
The  robin,  hid  among  the  leaves, 

Her  tribute  gives, 
Pouring  her  song  to  hail  the  day, 
So  sweet,  so  sorrowfully  gay. 

The  brooks  run  sparkling  to  the  day, 
The  bloom  of  trees  perfumes  the  air ; 

The  landscape  with  its  rich  array 
Seems  one  Elysian  region  fair, 
Beyond  compare 

To  aught  save  fancy's  land  of  dreams, 

That  with  phantasmal  beauty  teems. 


LAYS   OF   A   TWELVEMONTH;  55 

The  harbinger  of  corn  I  heard 

While  furrowing  the  field  to-day  ; 
The  sweet  prophetic  planting-bird 

Sang,  perched  upon  the  shaking  spray, 

His  vocal  lay  ; 

And,  pausing  o'er  the  plow  to  hear, 
I  answered  thus  the  prattler  dear : — 

Sing  on,  sweet  bird  !  soon  shall  the  corn 
Upspringing  from  the  ground  appear  ; 

First  will  the  spiky  blade  be  born, 
The  tassel  next,  and  next  the  ear, 
And  autumn  sere 

Shall  heap  upon  the  harvest  plain 

The  ponderous  sheaves  of  golden  grain. 

And  on  whose  bounty  shalt  thou  feed, 
Meantime,  who  tell'st  the  time  to  plant  ? 

Come  to  my  door  in  time  of  need, — 
Thou  shalt  not  for  thy  morsel  want. 
Say'st  thou  '  I  sha'nt  ?'— 

Ah  !  't  was  thy  neighbor  of  the  bough 

With  dusky  coat, — I  see  him,  now  ! 

Fair  May  !  thy  very  name  implies 
A  power,  but  of  a  doubtful  kind  : — 

We  may  '  shoot  folly  as  it  flies,' 
Or  we  may  be,  indeed,  too  blind  ; 
And  we  may  find 

That  hatred,  hope,  e'en  love  sincere, 

Are  tethered  to  the  rolling  year  ! 


56  THE  HARP  AND  PLOW. 


JUNE. 

HAIL,  beauteous  June !  the  twelvemonth's  leafy  prime 
Unstained  as  yet  by  summer's  dust  and  heat ; 

Art  may  not  copy  from  the  book  of  time 
Thy  living  tableau  pleasing  and  complete. 

This  glorious  '  blue  of  June'  ! — the  morning  skies 
Unchequered  by  a  single  cloudy  fleece. 

From  wood  and  hill,  from  vale  and  stream  arise 
Incense  and  anthems  to  the  Fount  of  Peace  ! 

I  love  to  con  the  pictures  in  thy  book, 
0,  moon  of  leaves !  all  rurally  displayed  : 

The  grazing  herd  beside  the  clear,  cold  brook, 
The  green  banks  greener  in  the  elmy  shade ; 

The  woody  mountain,  in  the  distance  blue  ; 

The  valley  where  the  sleeping  waters  shine  ; 
The  lawn,  the  cornfield,  emerald  in  hue ; — 

All  matchless  limnings  by  a  hand  Divine. 

There  is  a  picture  upon  yonder  slope, 
So  freshly  verdant  in  the  morning  sun  : 

Two  lambkins,  types  of  Innocence  and  Hope, 
O'er  the  bright  carpet  of  the  morning  run. 

How  like  two  children  in  their  careless  play  ! 

How  heedless  of  the  butcher,  like  the  child  ! 
I  saw  an  old  man  looking,  bowed  and  gray  ; 

He  looked,  seemed  sorrowful,  and  faintly  smiled. 


LAYS   OF   A   TWELVEMONTH.  57 

The  housewife  watching  from  the  cottage  door, 
Sees  o'er  the  hive  the  insect  cloud  arise  ; 

Diffused  awhile  on  humming  wings  they  soar, 
And  kindly  cluster  where  their  monarch  flies. 

From  underneath  the  bridge  the  phoebe  starts, 
Scared  by  the  footsteps  of  the  passer  by  ; 

Through  the  cool  arches  of  the  alders  darts, 
Or  snaps  on  salient  wings  the  dronish  fly. 

iVith  early  morn  the  strains  of  music  come, 
And  summer's  minstrels  gladden  all  the  day  ; 

[he  gold-finch  fifing  and  the  cuckoo's  drum, 
The  bob'link's  demi-semi-quavered  lay. 

Hiere  is  the  sun-browned  farmer  at  his  toil, 
Early  afield  among  the  springing  corn  ; 
s  are  the  healthful  labors  of  the  soil, 
The  noblest  calling  of  a  freeman  born. 

Prue  son  of  Independence  !  ah,  how  few 
High  sounding  statesmen  can  thy  merit  claim  ! 

o  */ 

Uhey  may  cause  wars  and  fightings  ;  such  as  yon 
Save,  in  the  battle's  shock,  the  nation's  name. 


JULY. 


ON  the  fourth  morning  of  thy  moon, 
From  slumber  we  awaken  soon  ; 
The  thundering  gun,  and  pealing  bell 
A  nation's  glad  remembrance  tell. 


58  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

'  Tis  well ;  I  love  to  see  the  fire 

Our  father's  built,  re-burn  ; 
I  love  the  memories  of  the  sire — 

The  ashes,  and  the  urn  ! 
I  love  to  see  the  gray-haired  man, 
Who  can  tell  more  than  history  can, 
Filled  with  emotion  when  he  sees 
That  banner  streaming  in  the  breeze. 
The  tears  that  down  his  visage  roll 
When  sounds  that  fire  the  soldier's  soul 
Break  on  his  deadened  ears,  declare 
He  once  was  ready,  and  was  there. 

Haymakers  to  their  labors  speed 
At  morning's  dewy  dawn  ; 

They  gather  in  the  tangled  mead 
And  on  the  upland  lawn. 

Through  the  tall  grass  the  mower  goes, 
A  day's  work  in  his  mein  ; 

The  grass  he  likens  to  his  foes, 
His  scythe  to  falchion  keen. 

(The  farmer's  life  may  peaceful  be, 
Free  from  all  bloody  feuds  ; 

Yet  will  he  use  instinctively 
Warlike  similitudes.) 

High  noon  is  blazing  from  the  sky  ; 
Broad  acres  shorn  and  withered  lie, 
While  in  the  maple's  cooling  shade 
The  mowers  lazily  are  laid. 


LAYS   OF  A  TWELVEMONTH.  59 

The  farmer  springs  from  out  his  chair, 
The  weather  is  his  watchful  care 
And  not  the  terrors  of  lee-shore 
Could  startle  hardy  seaman  more, 
Than  him  that  growling  from  afar, 
Proclaiming  elemental  war  ; — 
Sounds,  which  at  distance  far  away, 
I've  heard  my  good  old  grandame  say, 
Seemed  like  the  sullen  booming  gun 
On  battle-day  at  Bennington. 

Sudden  grows  dark  the  western  sky  ; 
All  hands  a-field  !  is  now  the  cry. 
The  cottage  girl  with  laughing  eyes 
And  flushed  with  health  and  exercise 
Comes  bounding  outward  from  the  door, 
And  half  in  sport,  but  something  more, 
Seizes  a  rake  with  carol  cheery, 
And  with  her  presence  fires  the  weary. 
Then  soon  along  the  darkening  road 
Is  trundling  home  the  ponderous  load, 
Lively,  my  lads  !  the  rushing  rain 
Is  just  behind  you  on  the  plain  ! 
Lively  !  and  gain  the  open  doors, 
E'er  pattering  on  the  roof  it  pours. 

Toil  brings  its  recompense  to  one 

Whose  thoughts  are  working  like  his  hands  ; 
For  toil's  reward  is  not  alone 

The  product  rich  of  fertile  lands. 


60  TIIE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

Does  one  possess  the  painter's  eye, 
Or  sip  the  bright  Pierian  bowl  V 

Then  cares  that  listless  ease  deny 
Stamp  vigor's  impress  on  his  soul. — 

Thus  muses,  in  the  gloaming,  one 
As  round  him  meadows  shorn  are  seen, 

And  the  last  pencil  of  the  sun 

Tinges  the  oaks  with  golden  green  ! 


AUGUST — MY    BIRTH-MONTH. 

GOD  of  the  years  !  the  month  is  born, 
The  month  peculiarly  my  own, 

When  I,  to  lead  life's  hope  forlorn, 
All  helpless  on  the  world  was  thrown  ! 

August,  thou  month  of  months  to  me  ! 

Not  for  the  beauty  of  thy  scenes  ; 
Not  harvests  gladdening  to  see  ; 

But  fast  on  thee  my  memory  leans. 

Not,  as  the  poet  sang,  do  I 

'  Dim  backward'  on  thy  memories  look  ; 
Distinctly  on  the  past  they  lie 

Like  pictures  painted  in  a  book. 

I've  seen  the  arrow  fly  by  day  ; 

I've  seen  the  pestilence  walk  by  night  ; 
And  once  beneath  thy  scathing  ray 

Death  hid  a  cherub  from  my  sight. 


VISION   OF  POESY.  73 

And  hand  posterity  his  name 

Recorded  bright. 
Haply  of  thee  some  bard  the  same 

One  day  may  write. 

'  To  numbers  I  attuned  his  tongue  ; 
Prompted  by  me  his  lyre  he  strung 
And  to  his  raptured  country  sung 

His  ditties  wild ; 
While  fast  to  Nature's  robes  he  clung — 

Her  loving  child. 

'  I  know  thou  lovest  Nature  well, 
Tho'  faithless  all  thy  love  to  tell  ; 
With  her  't  is  thy  delight  to  dwell, 

With  her  to  stray 
Down  purling  brook  or  lonely  dell 

In  musing  way. 

'  When  Spring  with  all  her  winning  powers 
Invites  thee  forth  within  her  bowers, 
I  see  thee  from  her  bright-eyed  hours 

That  skip  along, 
Her  leafy  sprays,  and  fragrant  flowers 

Indite  the  song. 

'  When  Summer  with  her  mantle  green 
In  all  her  beauteous  prime  is  seen, 
I  note  thy  soberness  of  mien, 

And  thoughtful  look ; 
From  her  thou  dost  instruction  glean 

As  from  a  book. 

7 


74  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

*  When  sober  Autumn's  moons  appear, 
I  see  thee  mark  the  rolling  year, 
Its  withered  foliage  scattering  sere, 

With  deep  delight ; 
Her  voiceful  -winds  you  love  to  hear, 

Enraptured  quite. 

'  When  hoary  Winter  laps  his  shroud 
O'er  Nature's  face,  thy  muse  is  proud 
To  hear  the  bellowing  demon  crowd 

At  midnight  run ; 

Or,  see  the  drifty,  smothering  cloud 
Pall  the  pale  sun  ! 

'  When  Fortune,  with  her  fickleehand 
Beckoned  thee  to  a  distant  strand, 
I  saw  thee  list  to  her  command 

And  willing  go ; 

But  bad'st  farewell  thy  native  land 
In  dirge  of  wo. 

'  And  when  beneath  a  milder  clime 
Where  folly  takes  "  no  note  of  time," 
Where  reveled  riot  boasts  of  crime — 

I've  seen  thee  raise 

Thy  harp  and  strike  a  tuneful  chime — 
New  England's  praise. 

1  And  when  the  voice  of  human  woe 
You  hear,  in  trem'lous  accents  low, 
I  note  the  sympathetic  flow 

That  marks  thy  strains  ; 


VISION   OF   POESY.  75 

You  burn  to  see  the  gew-gaw  show, 
And  worth  in  chains. 

'''I  see  thee,  scion  of  that  race 
Who  dared  Oppression's  might  to  face  ; 
You  love  their  hallowed  steps  to  trace 

With  ardor  true ; 
Inherent  PATRIOTIC  GRACE 

Shall  hallow  you. 

'  This  have  I  heard  and  seen  in  thee, — 
Well  pleased  to  hear,  well  pleased  to  see  ; 
Tliis  mantle,  sacred  unto  me, 

Shall  thee  enfold ! 
Amongst  thy  country's  bards  shall  be 

Thy  name  enrolled ! 

'  And  take  thou  this,  my  sounding  lyre  ! 
And  let  it  rouse  thy  soul  to  fire  ! 
Strike  from  it  strains  that  shall  not  tire, — 

Sing  from  the  heart ; 
Thy  country's  glory  shall  inspire 

Your  tuneful  art. 

'  When  on  the  hill-side  or  the  plain 
You  guide  the  plough,  or  reap  the  grain, 
Be  free  to  wake  the  rural  strain, 
Your  toils  to  cheer  ; 
.For  ever  with  you  I'll  remain 

To  prompt  and  hear. 

'  Sing  of  thy  ancient,  noble  state  ; 
Her  worthy  sons — renowned  great ; 


76  THE   HARP   AND    PLOW. 

Her  patriotic  dead,  whose  fate 

Your  freedom  gave  ; — 

Her  PATRIOTIC  FIRE  innate 

That  burns  to  save  ! 

'  Sing  of  NEW  ENGLAND,  favored  laud  ! 
Her  customs  dear — her  social  band  ; 
Her  everlasting  hills  that  stand 

Above  her  meads, 
As  when  at  first,  by  His  command, 

They  reared  their  heads  ! 

'  Sing  of  her  streams,  meandering  slow, 
Or  rushing,  seaward  as  they  flow  ; 
Her  beetling  crags  that  backward  throw 

The  climbing  seas ; 
Her  blessed  homes  out-looking  low 

From  sheltering  trees. 

'  Tell  of  her  sons  that  rove  the  earth 
Far  from  the  country  of  their  birth  ; 
Tell  of  the  bright  domestic  hearth — 

Her  daughters  fair ; 
The  virtue,  innocence  and  worth 

Refulgent  there. 

1  And  now  to  this  incline  thine  ear  : — 
In  every  place  true  worth  revere  ; 
Respect  thyself,  nor  censure  fear 

For  thy  poor  lays  ; 
Let  e'en  Fame's  minions  never  hear 

Thee  fawn  for  praise. 


VISION   OF  POESY.  77 

'  Envy  not  Mammon  with  his  gold  ; 
My  gifts  can  not  be  bought  and  sold. 
Envy  not  Pride-of-place  enrolled 

With  pomp  and  power ; — 
The  Bard  his  title  still  shall  hold 
As  Heaven's  dower  /' 

Thus  spoke  the  gracious,  heaven-born  maid. 
I  listened  well, — no  more  afraid, 
For  all  distrust  and  fear  were  laid 

Forgotten  by ; 

And  took  the  lyre,  e'en  as  she  bade, 
My  skill  to  try. 

Then,  as  her  mantle  o'er  me  fell, 
Enchantment  wrapt  me  in  its  spell. 
How  sweetly  did  my  numbers  swell 

And  glide  along ! 
0,  for  the  gift  once  more  to  tell 

That  rapturous  song ! 
I  ceased  to  sing,  with  lyre  upraised, 
At  my  unwonted  skill  amazed, 
Waiting  expectant  to  be  praised  ; — 

Could  she  be  there  ? 
I  turned  to  look,  but  sorrowing  gazed 

On  empty  air ! 

For  Phoebus  from  his  ocean-bed 
Aloft  his  morning  signals  spread  ; 
Pale  in  the  dawn  my  vision  fled 

Like  wreathing  smoke  ; 
And  I  to  song  of  birds,  instead 

Of  mine,  awoke. 

7* 


AN  AUTUMNAL  LEAF. 


WHEN  withered  leaves  around  my  way 

Drift  in  the  fresh  autumnal  blast, 
I  view  them,  as  they  rustling  play, 

As  Summer's  phantoms  flitting  past. 
In  some  still  nook,  or  sheltering  lee 
Of  roaring  woods,  they  seem  to  me 
When  resting  from  their  eddying  flight, 

To  build  departed  Summer's  urn  ; 
Where  Phoebus  pours  a  saddened  light 

Like  moonlight  fanned  to  burn. 

The  rivulet  lowers  its  babbling  voice, 

Past  its  brown  banks  runs  dreamily  ; 
It  seems  to  take,  as  if  from  choice, 

The  melancholy  minor  key. 

All  nature  's  full  of  sympathy  : 
The  winds  and  waters,  woods  and  plains, 
Together  blend  their  dirge-like  strains  ; 
The  lonely  bird  forbears  to  sing ; 

Grief-stifled  seems  each  tuneful  throat ; 
E'en  darker  grows  the  raven's  wing, 

And  desert-like  his  note. 


AN   AUTUMNAL   LEAF.  79 

The  herd-boy,  keeping  watch  a-field 

Beside  the  late  outstanding  grain, 
Marks  leaves  in  gusty  circles  wheeled 

And  scattered  o'er  the  russet  plain  ; 
Or  sees  the  wavy  line  that  floats 
In  the  gray  rack  to  flute-like  notes ; 
Wild  fowl  are  harrowing  the  sky, 

The  early  harbingers  of  snow  ; 
Far  southward  on  his  straining  eye 

All  indistinct  they  grow. 

The  dying  winds,  as  sets  the  sun, 

Usher  the  gloaming  and  expire  ; 
The  frosty  stars  gleam,  one  by  one, 

Like  ice  reflecting  distant  fire. 
The  moon  awaits  her  time  to  rise 
To  bathe  with  her  cold  light  the  skies ; 
The  frost  king  creeps  in  stillness  forth  ; 

While  shooting  upward  high  and  higher, 
The  nameless  wizzard  of  the  north 

Kindles  his  ghostly  fire. 

The  peasant  homeward  hieing  now, 

Belated,  turns  his  thoughtful  gaze, 
And  sees  on  high  the  starry  '  Plough' 

Pale  through  the  evanescent  blaze. 
Thoughts,  sad  yet  pleasing,  crowd  his  mind  ; 
Thoughts  formless  half,  and  half  defined, 
Such  as  the  bard  and  painter  feel, 

But  fail  to  picture  or  to  sing ; 
Thoughts  that  of  genius  fix  the  seal 

And  point  her  upward  wing  ! 


80  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

The  hunter,  camped  beside  the  spring, 

Where  the  red  maple  sheltering  stands, 
As  low  the  welling  waters  sing, 

And  cheerful  shine  his  blazing  brands, 
Moodily  muses  as  his  eye 
Watches  the  flashing  northern  sky, 
And  dreams  in  ODIN'S  distant  hall 

Hunters  some  kingly  banquet  share, 
And  he,  one  day,  when  Death  shall  call, 

Shall  mingle  with  them  there. 

When  withered  leaves  around  my  way 

Drift  in  the  fresh  autumnal  blast, 
I  look  upon  them  as  they  play, 

As  Summer's  phantoms  flitting  past. 
In  stilly  nook,  or  sheltering  lee 
Of  waving  woods,  they  seem  to  me, 
When  gathering  from  their  eddying  flight, 

To  build  departed  Summer's  urn, 
Where  Phoebus  pours  a  mellowed  light 

Like  moonlight  fanned  to  burn. 


TO  A  WILD  ROSE. 


SWEET  offspring  of  the  solitude  ! 
Dost  in  this  lonely  spot  elude 
The  wanton  gaze  and  notice  rude 

Of  vulgar  eyes  ? 
Hear  me,  if  I  on  thee  intrude, 

Apologize  ! 

No  rival,  tender-hearted  fair, 
Made  thy  young  growth  her  willing  care, 
Nor  hid  thee  when  the  frosty  air 

Spread  winter  wide ; 
Or  marks  thee  blooming  rich  and  rare 

In  flowery  pride. 

Deep  in  the  woodland,  wild  to  view, 
Flora,  lone-straying,  planted  you  ; 
Mild  Vesper  wet  with  gentle  dew, 

The  teeming  earth, 
And  Phoebus  peeped  the  foliage  through 

To  hail  thy  birth. 


82  THE  HARP  AND   PLOW. 

Near  thee,  in  ever  watchful  mood, 
The  partridge  trains  her  little  brood  ; 
And  pussy  comes  o'er  many  a  rood, 

With  dewy  feet, 
To  mingle  with  her  morning  food 

Thy  fragrance  sweet. 

Sweet  little  rose  !  thou  mindest  me 
Of  innocence  and  modesty  ; 
Apart  the  world,  and  lone,  like  thee, 

They,  too,  are  raised 
Beneath  some  cottage-sheltering  tree, 

Unknown,  unpraised. 

Emblem  of  worth — (alas,  how  true  !) 
That  in  retirement,  veiled  from  view, 
Gives  to  its  poor  unnoticed  few, 

A  conscience  clean  ; 
Then  in  the  spot  whereon  it  grew, 

It  dies  unseen ! 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LITTLE  CLARA.' 


IT  was  in  the  summer  time, 

And  the  leaves  were  in  their  prime 

And  their  pride  ; 
It  was  early  in  the  morn, 
And  a  robin  sang  forlorn 

When  she  died. 

You  have  seen  a  budding  flower 
In  some  sweet,  domestic  bower — 

Fair  to  see ; 

You  have  seen  a  lily  white, 
Pure,  and  beauteous,  and  bright ; 

Such  was  she  ! 

You  have  seen  that  cherished  flower 
In  some  sad  untimely  hour 

Leave  its  tree ; 
You  have  seen  the  lily  lost 
Even  when  you  prized  it  most ; 

So  was  she  ! 

You  can  see,  on  looking  back 
O'er  life's  memorable  track, 
With  a  sigh, 

*   Gill,  Mass. — Died,  CLAKA,  daughter  of  Josiah  D.  and  Josephine 
M.  P.  Canning,  1£  years. 


84  THE   HARP  AND    PLOW. 

Scenes  so  sweet  they  even  seem 
Like  the  fiction  of  a  dream  ; 
So  can  I  ! 

As  is  written  in  the  Word, 
'  When  the  candle  of  the  Lord' 

O'er  you  shone  ; 
You  renew  the  past  awhile, 
As  you  ponder  you  would  smile  ; 

But  you  groan. 


;  perhaps,  a  little  child 
In  its  innocence  has  smiled 

On  your  knee  ; 

Or  has  hailed  you  from  the  door, 
When  the  toils  of  day  were  o'er, 
With  its  glee. 

Now  in  vain  those  little  feet 

You  may  watch  to  hear,  and  meet, 

As  you  come 

With  a  slow  and  sober  tread, 
For  your  thoughts  are  on  the  dead, 

And  their  home. 

And,  perhaps,  on  looking  back 
O'er  life's  melancholy  track, 

With  a  sigh, 

You  can  tell  the  sons  of  mirth 
You  are  getting  weaned  from  earth 

So  can  I  ! 


MY  BROTHER'S  OCEAN-GRAVE. 


I  WENT  to  view  a  brother's  grave ; 
Not  where  the  weeping  willows  wave 

Their  pendent  branches  green  ; 
Not  where  the  spire,  with  sunward  slope, 
Points  steadfast  to  the  realms  of  Hope 

Above  a  quiet  scene  ! 

Not  where  the  monumental  stone 
Or  chiseled  statue  stands  a  lone 

Cold  sentry  o'er  the  dead  ; 
Not  where  Affection  plants  with  care 
Exotics  rich  and  flowers  rare 

To  dress  the  sleeper's  bed. 

Not  where  the  sunlight  on  the  sod 
Gilds,  like  the  blessed  smile  of  GOD, 

The  couch  of  mortal  rest ; 
Where  songs  of  birds  and  zephyrs  fair 
Foreshadow  to  the  mourner  there 

The  regions  of  the  blest. 

Oh,  no  !  I  went  to  view  again 
The  gray  and  melancholy  main, 

And  rode  the  storm-rolled  wave  ; 


86  THE   HARP   AND    PLOW. 

I  mused  upon  the  waters  wild, 
Befitting  tomb  for  Ocean's  child  ; — 
There  was  my  brother's  grave  ! 

GOD,  in  His  providence,  appears 
At  times  to  spurn  Affection's  tears 

And  ineffective  prayers  ; 
At  times  't  would  seem  as  if  the  just 
HE  crushed  by  sorrows  to  the  dust, 

And  '  bands'  in  death  were  theirs. 

Such  my  distracting  thoughts,  when  first, 
Years  since,  the  tidings  o'er  me  burst 

Like  thunder  from  the  cloud  ; 
News  of  a  brother's  mortal  sleep, 
His  corse  '  COMMITTED  TO  THE  DEEP,' 

Lashed  in  his  hammock-shroud  ! 

But  now  I  love  the  restless  sea ; 
Oh,  what  a  mighty  grave  has  he 

Within  its  bosom  vast ! 
Its  voiceful  billows,  as  they  roll, 
Wake  solemn  music  in  my  soul, 

Responsive  to  the  past. 

Buried  of  Ocean  !  though  my  eye 
Saw  not  where  thy  cold  ashes  lie, 

Not  that  do  I  deplore  ; 
In  death  thou'rfc  blest ;  thy  grave,  the  sea, 
Is  nobler  far  than  mine  will  be 

Upon  the  tamer  shore  ! 


LINES  TO  A   BULLET   FROM  THE   FIELD  OF 
WATERLOO.* 


BULLET  from  the  famous  fray, 

Waterloo ! 
Long  ago,  and  far  away, — 

Bloody  Waterloo ! 
Looking  on  thy  battered  form, 
Fancy  paints  the  sulphur  storm  ; 
Paints  the  red  sod  reeking  warm  ; 

Paints  dread  Waterloo  ! 

Ball  from  the  mighty  battle,  say, 
Was  thy  flight  harmless  on  that  day  ? 
A  gunner's  practised  eye  can  see 
Scarce  harmless  could  thy  mission  be  ; 
Cain's  murderous  marks  on  thee  impress'd, 
Puts  sceptic  doubt  at  once  to  rest. 

Hadst  thou  a  tongue,  then  such  a  tale 
As  wets  the  cheek  of  Pity,  pale, 
Thou  mightst  reveal,  thyself  to  show 
The  witless  cause  of  weighty  woe. 

*  A  genu-ne  relic;  presented  to  the  author  by  JUNIUS  D.   ADAMS, 
Esq.,  Stockbridge,  Berkshire. 


88  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

In  some  sweet,  rural  spot,  perchance 
A  vineyard  green  of  sunny  France, 
Some  love-lorn  maiden  long  bemourned 
Thy  conscript  victim  unreturned  ; 
Wandered  the  purpling  alleys  o'er 
Lamenting  him  she  saw  no  more. 
And  he,  prone  on  the  trampled  soil, 
Amidst  the  raging  fight's  turmoil, 
Wept  with  affection's  feeling  true 
As  he  recalled  her  last  adieu, 
The  scenes,  the  hopes  of  youthful  prime, 
Fast  fading  with  the  ebb  of  time. 

Perchance  on  haughty  Albion's  shore 
Some  titled  mourners  did  deplore 
In  all  the  pageantry  of  woe, 
One  whom  thy  fatal  flight  laid  low ; 
One  who  found  death  in  seeking  fame — 
The  bubble  of  a  sounding  name. 

Perhaps  in  heathered  Scottish  dell 
Was  heard  the  pibrock's  wailing  swell 
Filling  the  clannish  haunts  with  grief 
For  '  bonnie  lad'  or  '  Hieland  chief,' 
Whose  tartan  was  his  shrouding,  too, 
Beneath  the  turf  of  Waterloo. 

Perhaps  one  bowed  by  many  years 
Went  grieving  down  the  '  vale  of  tears,' 
Of  whose  declining  days  the  stay 
Thou  didst  in  battle  strike  away, 


LINES   TO    A    BULLET.  89 

And  left  embittered,  hopeless  age 
To  mourn  Ambition's  jealous  rage. 

0,  fell  Ambition  !  thou  hast  sown 
Discordant  seeds,  and  warrings  grown  ; 
Plucked  up  the  peaceful  olives  where 
They  grew,  and  set  hell's  bale-fires  there. 
0,  fell  Ambition. — heartless  fiend  ! 
What  horrid  harvests  thou  hast  gleaned  ! 
The  battle  field  thy  threshing  floor ; 
Thy  garners  stained  with  human  gore  ! 

Wert  thou  a  relic,  blood  ensealed, 
From  SARATOGA'S  storied  field  ; 
From  MONMOUTH'S  plain,  or  BUNKER'S  height — 
Spots  dear  to  FREEDOM  and  the  RIGHT, — 
Then  wouldst  thou  seem  another  thing  ; 
Then  nobler  numbers  might  I  sing ; 
Then  this  I  write,  to  him  who  read, 
Might  not  be  leaden  Lines  on  Lead ; 
But  both  my  musings  and  my  theme 
Seem  bright  as  Californian  dream. 
Then  on  my  horn-hard  palm  I'd  take 
Thee,  for  my  soldier  grandsire's  sake, 
And  see  a  halo  round  thee  shine 
To  warm  my  heart  and  gild  my  line ; 
For  in  thy  battered  form  I'd  see 
The  daysman  of  my  liberty  ; 
And  show  thee  up  to  tyrants,  for 
Remembrancer  and  monitor, 
8* 


90  THE  HARP   AND   PLOW. 

But  when  ambitious  man  sits  down 
And  counts  his  chances  for  a  crown. 
And  reckons  up  with  idle  pen 
The  hecatombs  of  fellow  men 
That  he  must  marshal  out  to  die 
To  throne  him  regally  and  high  ; 
When  tyrant  power  sends  forth  its  slaves 
To  murderous  fight  and  bloody  graves, — 
No  freeborn  bard  may  wake  the  strain 
Heroic,  o'er  th'  ensanguined  plain, 
Or  kindle  at  a  thing  like  you, 
Ball  from  the  field  of  Waterloo  ! 


THE  FARMER  TO  HIS  PLOUGH. 


NOT  homely  is  the  theme  I  sing, 
Tho'  fancy  seldom  plumes  her  wing 

Beside  thy  glittering  share  ; 
She  '11  wander,  first,  earth's  confines  o'er, 
And  search,  and  draw  from  fab'lous  lore, 

Her  burden  and  her  care. 

Not  homely  is  the  theme  I  sing, 
Though  some  account  thee  but  a  thing 

Devoid  of  every  grace  ; 
I  know  not  who  invented  thee ; 
Whoe'er  he  was,  he  ought  to  be 

The  glory  of  our  race. 

The  sailor  on  his  anchor  leans, 
The  soldier  dotes  on  battle-scenes, 

And  shows  his  gleaming  brand  ; 
But  forward  comes  the  farmer  now, 
With  honest  front,  the  good  old  plough 

Beneath  his  horny  hand ! 


92  THE   HARP    AND    PLOW. 

The  throne,  the  sceptre,  and  the  crown 
May  into  ruins  crumble  down ; 

Still  man  in  peace  may  rest ; 
Wealth  may  take  wings  and  fly  away, 
The  luxuries  of  pride  decay, 

Still  man  be  truly  blest : — 

But  banish  thee  from  off  the  earth ! 
Then  wailing  takes  the  place  of  mirth 

And  direful  woe  upsprings  ; 
Then  Desolation  blights  the  land, 
And  Famine,  with  her  bony  hand, 

Defies  the  wants  of  kings. 

Back  through  the  hoary  old  I  look 
To  find  the  plough  and  reaping-hook : 

I  find  them  there,  and  view 
Old  rapt  Elisha  at  the  plough, 
And  Cincinnatus'  thoughtful  brow 

All  damp  with  labor's  dew. 

Though  I  may  never  hope  to  drive 
The  team  Elisha  drove,*  or  thrive 

With  Cincinnatus'  fame ; 
Yet  fast  by  thee,  old  plough  !  I'll  stand, 
And  let  my  thoughts  run  more  '  to  land,' 

Than  on  a  mighty  name. 

*  See  1st  Kings;  six  chap.  19  verse. 


THE  HARVEST  MOON. 


I. 

THE  burning  sun  has  gone  to  rest ; 

All  cloudless  are  the  skies  ; 
The  breeze  blows  softly  from  the  west ; 

Night's  dreamy  strains  arise. 
Forgotten  now  the  toil,  the  heat 

That  marked  the  glittering  noon, 
As  o'er  the  eastern  hills  I  greet 

The  reaper's  yellow  moon. 

II. 

Aloft  she  cleaves  the  ether  thin 

And  '  beautifully  blue,' 
As  if  impatient  to  begin 

The  evening  and  the  dew ; 
As  if  in  mirthful  mood  she  chased 

Old  Phoebus  to  his  rest, 
And  spied  him  rounding  in  his  haste 

The  corner  of  the  west. 


94  THE    HARP    AND    PLOW. 

III. 

What  placid  beauty,  what  repose 

Makes  lovely  now  the  night, 
As  o'er  the  landscape  Luna  throws 

Her  mollifying  light ! 
The  mountain,  steep  and  rough  by  day, 

Seems  now  a  smoother  hill ; 
So  softening  influence  may  allay 

Man's  rude,  imperious  will. 

IV. 

The  reaper  sees  each  well  known  field 

Assume  some  fairy  change  ; 
And  forms  fantastic  seem  revealed 

Where  swaying  shadows  range. 
The  rustic  bridge  that  spans  the  stream 

Seems  now  a  gem  of  art, 
So  sweetly  does  the  nightly  beam 

Perform  the  pencil's  part. 


Fit  season  for  ideal  dream  ! 

While  plodding  mortals  sleep, 
I'll  wander  by  the  lonely  stream 

And  musing  vigils  keep. 
The  glancing  ripple,  and  the  still 

Deep  water's  shady  flow, 
Remind  me  of  a  hasty  will, 

And  cautious  prudence  slow. 


LINES   TO    A    BEE.  95 

VI. 

The  zephyrs  wandering  thro'  the  vale, 

As  if  without  an  aim, 
Shall  fan  the  spark  of  fancy  pale 

To  vivifying  flame. 
And  thou,  bright  beamer,  far  o'erhead, 

Composing  toil  and  strife  ! 
Thou  dost  in  bands  of  beauty  wed 

The  reaper  to  his  life. 


LINES  TO  A  BEE. 


THOU  'RT  weary,  busy  little  thing  ! 
Thy  load  is  large,  and  small  thy  wing  ; 
And  then  to  give  that  Highland  fling 

As  you  alighted ! 

No  wonder  you  displayed  your  sting 
Before  you  righted. 

All  things  have  failings,  so  we  see  ; 
E'en  thou  who  art,  as  all  agree, 
The  very  soul  of  industry, 

And  else  of  merit, 
Art  tempered  like  the  very  De , 

Nay,  Evil  Spirit. 


96  THE   HARP   AND    PLOW. 

When  morning  opes  her  brightening  eye, 
Thou  scan'st  the  aspect  of  the  sky, 
And  if  no  murky  storm  be  nigh 

Or  tempest  hover, 
Your  tiny  wings  are  spread  to  fly 

To  fields  of  clover. 

There,  busy  through  the  live  long  day, 
You  cull  your  sweets  and  bear  away  ; 
And  though  for  miles  abroad  you  stray, 

Ne'er  lost  in  straying ; 
Thou  art  for  straightness  in  survey 

A  common  saying. 

From  bees  man  may  a  lesson  draw 
In  order,  government,  and  law  ; 
No  law  he  ever  framed  that  saw, 

Of  time,  the  tithe 
Of  that  which,  back  to  chaos  raAV 
Has  marked  the  hive. 

No  change  your  government  has  made 
Since  bees  at  first  their  taste  displayed, 
Nor  shall  new  laws  derange  your  trade, 

Ye  sweet  distillers  ! 
Till  earth  and  bees  at  rest  are  laid 

By  fire  or  Millers. 

Fixed  in  one  course,  you  firm  abide  ; 
And,  though  all  patriotic  pride, 


LINES   TO   A   BEE.  97 

You  never  boast  you  've  bled  and  died 

To  save  your  nation  ; 
Then  come  to  life  and  long  preside 

In  some  fat  station  ; 

But  let  a  foe  invade  your  ground, 
And  hark !  how  fierce  the  warriors  sound ! 
No  lack  of  practice  either 's  found — 

All  seek  the  fight ; 
And  he  who  'd  face  the  vollied  round 

You  '11  put  to  flight. 

E'en  Samson,  whose  strong  arm  refused 
No  giant  deed,  upon  you  mused  ;* 
But  still  I  'in  thinking  he  abused 

You  grossly,  sonny ; 
Some  foul  chicanery  he  used 

To  get  your  honey. 

0,  could  old  Sloth  thy  habits  know  ! 
Could  Uncle  Sam  thy  wisdom  show, 
How  round  his  public  purse  would  grow  ! 

How  deep  his  pocket ! 
How  would  his  Lo  co-motive  go 

Ahead,  like  Crocket ! 

*  Judges,  chapter  xiv. 


THE    THRESHER  AND  THE   RAT. 


'T  WAS  when  the  bridge  the  frost  had  made, 
Had  robbed  the  Charon  of  his  trade  ; 
When  slipping  sleighs  and  jingling  bells 
Supplied  the  place  of  rattling  wheels  ; — 
When  side-long  looked  the  southing  sun, 
And  labor  out-of-door  was  done, 
A  farmer  to  his  barn  did  go 
To  thresh,  as  he  was  wont  to  do. 

He  was  as  strong  a  man  as  ever 
Beneath  the  bowlders  thrust  a  lever ; 
As  brave  a  man  as  aught  of  those 
Who  faced  on  Bunker-Hill  their  foes  ; 
As  honest  as  the  man  who  sweat 
For  forty  years  to  pay  a  debt ; 
A  patriot,  and  no  truer  one 
TECUMSEH  was,  or  WASHINGTON  ; — 
He  was,  to  make  description  short, 
A  yankee  of  the  goodly  sort. 

The  wheaten  sheaves  he  spread  and  pounded  ; 
The  echoes  to  his  flail  resounded  ; 


THE   THRESHER  AND   THE   RAT.  99 

The  ox  looked  wise  at  what  he  saw, 

And  tasted  daintily  the  straw  ; 

The  fowls  came  craking  round  the  door 

For  seeds  that  flew  beyond  the  floor  ; 

And  loudly  in  the  thresher's  ear 

Sang  old  time-keeping  Chanticleer. 

But  moodily  the  thresher  wrought, 

And  thinking,  (for  he  must  have  thought,) 

While  he  the  bearded  grain  was  threshing, 

Of  men  who  needed  such  a  dressing. 

The  seventh  shock  he'd  just  begun — 
(He  chalked  the  number,  one  by  one,) — 
But  scarce  had  he  a  dozen  thumped, 
When  forth  a  rat,  confounded,  jumped ! 

THRESHER. 

Stop  thief!  here,  Jowler,  come  and  shake  him  ! 
Here,  pussy,  pussy  !  quick,  and  take  him  ! 
These  blasted  rats  have  torn  my  sheaves, 
Like  old  '  Aunt  Lizzy's'  bible  leaves. 
No  candidate,  in  search  of  Sunday, 
E'er  owned  a  horse  one-half  so  hungry. 

His  words  with  speech  inspired  the  rat ; 
He  turned,  and  on  his  haunches  sat : 

RAT. 

I  pray  thee,  goodman,  stop  thy  grieving 
That  I,  poor  body,  get  a  living  ; 


100  THE   HARP   AND    PLOW. 

And,  rather  pity,  when  I  tell  ye 
You  've  pounded  me  almost  to  jelly. 

THRESHER. 

High  words,  indeed,  for  rats  to  speak  ! 
I  thought  at  most  they  could  but  squeak. 
You  must  be  leader  of  the  throng 
That 's  troubled  me  so  much  and  long. 
By  night  I  hear  you,  on  my  bed, 
Chase  one  another  overhead, 
And  rattle  up  and  down  the  wall 
Some  plunder  to  your  dens  to  haul  ; 
And  in  my  barns  the  live-long  day, 
You  waste  my  precious  grain  away. 

RAT. 

You  've  little  charity,  I  see, 

For  such  a  needy  wretch  as  me. 

I  taste  your  grain  a  little,  true  ; 

'T  is  quite  as  good  for  me  as  you ; 

And  it 's  the  fashion  now-days,  neighbor, 

To  get  a  living  without  labor. 

THRESHER. 

You  have  more  brass,  conceited  knave, 
In  your  old  phiz,  than  thieves  should  have  ; 
Think  you  I  '11  harvest  corn  and  wheat 
For  miserable  rats  to  cat  ? 
Look  at  the  ant,  that  toils  and  strives, 
And  on  her  own  exertion  lives  ; 


THE   THREgHER   AND   THE   RAT.  101 

Look  at  the  bees,  wee,  busy  things, 
That  make  a  food  that 's  fit  for  kings  ; 
Look  at  your  cousin  in  the  bushes, 
He  is  content  with  grass  and  rushes  ; 
The  prowling  fox,  that  now  and  then 
Comes  to  uiy  yard  and  steals  a  hen, 
Would  say  you  were  of  rogues  the  chief; 
The  skunk  would  spurn  you  for  a  thief. 

RAT. 

Look  here  !  if  preaching  is  your  object, 
I  '11  show  you  more  important  subject : 
Now  did  it  never  strike  your  mind 
That  there  are  rats  among  mankind  ? 
The  rat  of  human-kind,  you  see, 
In  form  is  different  from  me  ; 
He  stands  six  feet,  or  less,  or  more  ; 
Walks  on  two  feet,  instead  of  four  ; 
Wears  a  fine  coat  with  pendent  tail, 
With  pockets  in  it, — where  I  fail ; 
Has  hands  whose  single  grasp  can  seize 
More  than  my  twelve-month's  bread  and  cheese  ; 
And,  to  crown  all,  his  Maker  kind 
Gives  him  a  shrewd,  discerning  mind, 
All  his  base  life,  on  earth  to  find 
Bye-paths  through  which  to  seek  his  leaven, 
And  dream  of  rat-holes,  too,  in  heaven. 
Now,  sir,  your  eyes  are  oped ,  I  wis ; 
'  Look  on  this  picture,  and  on  this;' 
And,  on  the  whole,  you  must  opine 
His  breed  is  worse,  by  far,  than  mine. 

9* 


102  THE   HARP   AND  PLOW. 

THRESHER. 

All  true,  old  rat !  thou  speakest  sense  I 
Fill  once  thy  maw,  and  get  thee  hence  ; 
For  since  thy  wit  has  cooled  my  choler, 
I  would  not  harm  thee  for  a  dollar. 

RAT. 

Nay,  goodman,  hear  me  till  I  've  done. 

Then,  if  you  're  willing,  I  will  run. 

Some  human  rats,  of  whom  I  speak, 

The  garner  of  your  nation  seek  ; 

They  talk  about  the  public  good, 

As  those  who  gull  the  public  should  ; 

Line  well  their  nests  with  '  Bicldle's  rags,' 

Filch  from  the  people's  money-bags, 

And  then,  to  hide  the  thefts  they  've  made, 

With  law  and  logic  make  parade  ; 

Call  a  sham  court ;  put  in  the  chair 

Some  ancient  rat  of  presence  rare, 

Whose  views  of  justice  and  intention 

Are  past  all  common  comprehension  ; 

Whose  verdicts,  ninety  in  a  hundred, 

Are  to  the  public  never  rendered. 

Or  some  old  rat,  benignly  feeling, 

To  give  the  rest  more  chance  for  stealing, 

Slips  quietly  among  some  cargo 

That  puts  to  sea  without  embargo, 

And  on  a  foreign  shore  arrives, 

With  spoils  to  last  him  while  he  lives. 


THE   THRESHER   AND   THE   RAT.  103 

In  short,  they  live  so  free  and  easy, 
That  thoughts  of  envy  often  tease  me  ; 
For  \vhen,  like  me,  in  theft  detected, 
They  sneak  aside,  and  live  respected. 

I  would  proceed,  and  tell  you  more, 
How  at  the  sanctuary  door 
These  precious  rats  sometimes  go  in 
With  pious  horror,  feigned,  for  sin, 
And  there  for  hapless  sinners  groan, 
Whom  they  've  dissected  to  the  bone. 

I  could  dilate  for  full  an  hour, 

To  tell  you  how  they  get  at  power  ; 

How  scrambling  o'er  the  backs  of  fools, 

They  use  the  willing  dupes  for  tools, 

And  dig  their  way  through  virtuous  worth, 

And  trample  genius  in  the  earth, 

Till  puffed  with  spoils,  and  damned  with  fame, 

True  rats  in  everything  but  name. 

I  'd  tell  you  all ;  but  this  must  do, 
For  I  perceive  I  'm  hindering  you  ; 
But  when  at  night  you  hear  us  run, 
Think  of  the  gang  at  Washington  ; 
And  rack  your  powers  of  invention 
For  traps  to  hold  them  in  detention  ; 
And  when  for  us  you  'd  call  the  cat, 
Call  Sootie  for  the  human  rat. 

The  rat,  no  more  with  speech  inspired, 
Now  turned,  and  suddenly  retired. 


TO  A  RED  SQUIRREL, 

BARKING  AT  MB  WHILE  PASSING  THROUGH  A  WOOD. 


GOOD  conscience  !  what  can  be  the  matter, 
To  call  forth  such  an  awful  clatter  ! 
Dost  think  that  I  am  come  to  scatter 

Salt  on  thy  tail  ? 
About  thy  head  and  ears  to  patter 

The  leaden  hail? 

You  don't  insinuate,  I  hope, 
I  'm  some  defaulter  on  the  slope  ? 
Or  some  poor  brain-bewildered  mope 

Whom  you  can  hector  ? 
One  thing  is  sure, — there 's  no  '  soft  soap' 

About  your  lecture. 

Just  stop  awhile  your  saucy  din, 
And  think  about  the  heinous  sin 
Of  judging  people,  kith  nor  kin, 

Before  you  know  them  ; 
If  thoughts  are  in  your  squirrel  skin, 

Then  you  may  show  them. 

How  many,  blest  with  reason's  light, 
Have  passed  wrong  judgment  at  first  sight, 


TO   A   RED   SQUIRREL.  105 

And  poured  unwittingly  their^spite 

Where  least  deserved, 

And  fawned  on  those  who  from  the  right 
Have  basely  swerved ! 

With  lies,  poor  Kit,  I  will  not  cheat  thee  ; 
The  time  has  been  when  thus  to  meet  me 
Were  to  meet  death :  but  now  I  'll'treat  thee 

Just  as  one  should, 
That  oft  hereafter  I  may  greet  thee 
Here  in  the  wood. 

You  seem  to  feel  quite  safe  ; — you  are  ; 
I  would  not  harm  of  thee  a  hair  ; 
But  I  've  a  word  or  two  to  spare 

By  way  of  stricture  ; 
Of  impudence  thou  art  a  rare 

And  striking  picture ! 

Take  my  advice  ;  don't  imitate 
The  human  race  at  such  a  rate  ! 
Your  consequence  may  e'en  be  great, 

Though  one  must  doubt  it ; 
For  man,  like  thee,  may  storm  and  prate, 

Yet  be  without  it. 

Could  he  who  speaks  for  Bunkum  stand 
And  hear  thee  rate  and  reprimand  ! 
His  frothy  speeches  sagely  planned, 

You  'd  plainly  show  him  ; 
He  fills  with  nonsense  all  the  land, — 

You  fill  my  poem. 


ONE  morn  I  strayed  the  brook  beside, 
Where  leafless  stood  the  willows, 

And  looking  in  the  stream  I  spied 
A  trout  upon  the  shallows. 

It  writhed,  it  struggled,  and  it  turned  ; 

In  vain  its  fins  were  flying ; 
The  kindling  sun  in  heaven  burned — 

The  hapless  fish  was  dying. 

So  musingly  I  passed  along, 

With  feelings  touched  with  pity  ; 

And  pity  lastly  moved  a  song, 
And  moral  marked  the  ditty  : 

When  man  on  pleasure's  stream  sets  sail, 
And  fortune  blows  her  bellows, 

How  soon  the  fickle  stream  may  fail 
And  leave  him  on  the  shallows  ! 


THE  TROUT  UPON   THE   SHALLOWS.  107 

When  riches  leave  their  owners  here, 

And  vanish  like  the  swallows, 
How  many  buy  the  knowledge  dear 

That  wealth  is  full  of  shallows  ! 

When  politicians  prate  and  preach, 

And  office-taking  follows, 
Too  late  '  the  people'  see  their  speech 

Was  babbled  over  shallows. 

When  zeal  expires  that  used  to  burn, 

And  hearts  grow  cold  and  callous, 
How  often  are  we  pained  to  learn 

Religion  has  its  shallows  ! 

Then  some  with  bards  and  wits  would  vie ; — 
Poor,  thoughtless,  brainless  fellows  ; 

How  oft  before  their  ink  is  dry 
They  're  fast  upon  the  shallows  ! 

And,  reader,  hast  thou  seen  a  man 

Expire  upon  the  gallows  ? 
'T  was  just,  perhaps,  but  justice  can 

And  justice  does  have  shallows. 

What  hideous  vice  concealed  from  view, 

In  wealth  and  honor  wallows, 
Which,  giving  justice  half  its  due, 

Would  wriggle  on  the  shallows  ! 


POTATOES. 


HEADER,  when  tliro'  the  country  going 
You  've,  doubtless,  seen  potatoes  growing. 
And  when  the  frosts  of  autumn  cold 
Have  nipp'd  the  grass  and  bound  the  mould, 
Stripp'd  trees  like  spars  bereft  of  rigging, — 
Doubtless  you  've  seen  potatoe-digging. 

0  !  ye,  who  drive  some  useful  trade, 
Yet  long  the  farmer's  life  to  lead, 
Because  in  some  wee  patch  of  ground, 
Hemm'd  in  by  walls  and  buildings"round, 
You  make  it  pastime  with  the  hoe 
To  spend  an  odd  half  hour,  or  so, 
And  boast  your  skill  to  raise  tomatoes, — 
Turn  out  one  day  and  dig  potatoes  ! 
Wind,  dead  north  pole  !  and  you  may  hear 
Cool  Boreas  purring  in  your  ear  ; 
Divided,  your  opinion  lingers 
'Twixt  itching  nose  and  dirty  fingers 
As  from  the  fountain  of  your  brain 
The  sap  drips  like  the  sugar  rain  ; 


POTATOES.  109 

And  when  in  order  to  reflect 
Should  you  your  aching  spine  erect, 
Then  envy  not  the  crow  that  flies 
Bowling  along  the  windy  skies, 
Or,  tacking  in  the  current,  scuds 
To  the  lee  side  of  sheltering  woods ; 
But  still  if  farmer's  life  you  covet, 
Think  '  what  is  truth,'  and  say  you  love  it. 

POTATOES  !  who  would  ever  dream 
Of  winning  bays  with  such  a  theme  ! 
'T  were  vain  to  try,  I  'd  surely  think  it, 
Unless  with  something  one  could  link  it, — 
Something  that  should  throughout  the  whole 
Pervade  the  body  with  a  soul. 
So  briefly  then  to  join,  I  '11  try, 
Potatoes  and  humanity. 

Potatoes  !  true  the  theme  is  homely, 
But  there  are  others  far  less  comely  ; 
Nor  do  I  care  how  critics  thwack  me 
Since  Paul  himself  will  kindly  back  me.* 

First,  note  this  sober  looking  fellow, 
His  color  of  a  dingy  yellow  ; 
Rough  his  exterior,  you  see, 
But,  for  all  that,  give  him  to  me. 
Nature  has  booked  him  *  No.  One  ;' 
A  little  cooking  and  he  's  done. 

*  1st  Cor.  15th,  47th,  first  clause. 
10 


110  THE  HARP  AND   PLOW. 

The  staff  of  life  is  wrap'd  within 
This  honest  old  potatoe's  skin, 
And  wheresoever  you  may  meet  him 
You  '11  love  him  well  enough  to  eat  him. 

Now,  reader,  have  you  never  seen 
An  awkward,  country  lad,  and  green, 
Raised  like  this  root,  we  have  in  hand, 
In  some  lone  spot  on  mountain  land, 
Or  by  some  brook,  whose  brawlings  never 
Have  magnified  it  to  a  river  ? — 
Yes,  you  have  seen,  if  you  were  looking, 
This  raw  one  go  abroad  for  cooking. 
His  innate  worth  becoming  known, 
Transformed  somewhat  you  've  seen  him  grown  ; 
The  outer  man  brushed  up  a  little, 
But  furbished  bright  the  native  mettle  ; 
His  story  told,  his  praises  sung, 
Himself  the  theme  of  every  tongue  ; 
In  halls  of  lore  and  halls  of  state 
He 's  fed  the  learned  and  the  great ; 
At  every  board  a  welcome  guest, — 
And  when  he  's  gone,  like  all  the  vest, 
How  often  is  he  brought  to  mind, 
A  very  jewel  of  his  kind  ! 

Well,  to  proceed  : — hero  is  another, 
But  totally  unlike  his  brother. 
Despite  his  size  and  aspect  good, 
This  one  is  scarcely  fit  for  food. 
Great  tales  were  told  about  his  birth 
Far  o'er  the  sea  in  foreign  earth  : 


POTATOES.  Ill 

A  farmer  prince,  somewhere,  't  was  said, 
Some  sage  experiments  had  made 
Upon  the  root  of  which  I  sing, 
And  at  the  last  produced  this  thing  ; 
And,  thereupon,  to  give  it  fame, 
Baptized  it  with  his  princely  name. 
The  story  took  ;  the  roots  were  sold  ; 
E'en  Yankee  farmers,  shrewd  and  old, 
Astonished  at  their  wondrous  yield, 
Set  Rohans  growing  in  their  field. 

Dear  reader,  when  you  chance  to  see 
A  boaster  of  his  pedigree, 
Thinking  for  grandeur's  lord  to  pass, 
When  you  can  see  he 's  but  an  ass  ; 
Whene'er  you  see  a  preference  given 
O'er  native  yeast  to  foreign  leaven  ; 
Whene'er  a  humbug  buzzes  round 
And  fain  would  light  upon  your  ground, 
Hit  it  with  liohans  on  the  sconce, 
And  that  will  settle  it  at  once. 

Last,  see  these  little  dirty  pellets, 
Scarcely  the  size  of  musket  bullets. 
In  vain  to  say  that  weeds  o'ertopp'd  them, 
Or  summer's  drouth  from  growing  stopp'd  them, 
Or,  were  they  tended  with  more  care, 
They  might  have  been  potatoes  rare. — 
Such  logic  's  vain ;  there  ever  will 
Be  small  potatoes  in  the  hill. 


112  THE   HARP  AND   PLOW. 

Reader,  again,  whene'er  you  find 
Men  of  great  words  and  little  mind, 
Whose  dim  ideas  chime  and  jingle 
Like  small  potatoes  on  a  shingle  ; 
Whene'er  you  see  a  lazy  fellow, 
Not  wholly  soft,  but  partly  mellow, 
Who  for  a  time  foregoes  his  ration 
Yet  boasts  his  grog-shop  graduation  ; 
Recounts  his  drunken  frolics  rare, 
And  thinks  that  sober  people  are 
For  these,  and  for  reform,  his  debtors, 
And  he  a  Cicero  in  letters  ; — 
Whene'er  you  see  a  Miller  wise 
Who  grinds  out  scripture  prophecies, 
And  sifts  out,  as  he  would  the  bran, 
What  mortal  never  could,  nor  can  ; — 
When  you  see  saints,  self-named,  self-holy, 
Expecting  to  ascend  to  glory, 
When  tenfold  easier  would  soar 
Your  hardship  in  a  cart  and  four  ; — 
Whene'er  you  see  an  office-seeker 
Acting  the  part  of  public  teacher, 
Condemning  in  rhetoric  treasures 
The  other  party's  ways  and  measures  ; 
Showing  such  evils  were  because 
You  did  not  let  him  make  the  laws  ; — 
Whene'er  you  see  a  zealot  wise 
Mangling  GOD'S  word  before  your  eyes ; 
One  who  mistook  an  owlet's  screech 
For  call  from  Zion's  Head  to  preach  ; — 


POTATOES.  113 

Fair-weather  sailors  when  you  spy  ; 
Brave  fellows  if  no  storm  be  nigh, 
When  e'en  make  mention  of  a  gale, 
And,  lo  !  the  tars  have  lowered  sail ; — 
Blank-cartridge  soldiers,  none  the  bolder 
For  the  bright  gun  upon  their  shoulder ; 
And  generals  full  of  martial  bluster 
To  face  the  awful  scenes  of — muster  ; — 
Whenever,  I  again  repeat, 
With  all  this  sort  of  thing  you  meet, 
The  fittest  emblem  you  may  find 
Potatoes  of  the  smallest  kind, 


10* 


TO  AN  OLD  PAIR  OF  BREECHEb. 


ADIEU  !  past  all  redemption  torn ! 
The  brunt  of  service  you  have  borne 
Bravely  and  long,  and  well  have  worn 

Your  seams  and  stitches ; 
But  now  your  latter  end  I  mourn, 

My  veteran  breeches. 

I  call  to  mind  when  thou  wert  new, 
Your  nap  was  smooth,  and  bright  your  hue 
Of  colors  best, — the  steadfast  blue  ; 

With  secret  fears 
I  take  the  retrospective  view ; 

And  all  appears ! 

I  cannot  wear  you  more  ;  0,  no ! 
I  may  not  such  exposure  show 
As  long-eared  beast,  long  time  ago, 

In  lion's  skin  ; 
That  skin  was  rent,  we  know,  and,  lo  ! 

The  ass  within. 


TO  AN  OLD  PAIR  OF  BREECHES.        115 

'T  is  hard  to  cast  you  by, — 't  is  sad ; 
A  better  pair  was  never  had 
Than  were  you  when  at  first  you  clad 

Your  lord  and  master  ; 
But  then  your  present  case  is  bad, — 

0,  dire  disaster ! 

Yes,  made  to  wear,  and  not  to  sell, 
You  kept  together  long  and  well ; 
And  when,  at  last,  you  failed — 0  !  tell, 

Were  you  misused  ? 
I  stood  astonished  for  '  a  spell,' 

And  back-ward  mused. 

Your  comely  front  your  owner's  care 
Preserved  in  aspect  good  and  fair ; 
The  tooth  of  time  't  would  even  dare 

Another  year ; 

When  fiercely  fell  old  Wear-and-tear 
Upon  the  rear. 

But  never  mind ;  all  things  must  fail, 
Both  mind  and  matter,  head  and  tail; 
And  since  your  case  is  past  all  bail 

By  '  sharps'  and  shears, 
'T  is  useless  longer  to  bewail 

Your  rent  arrears.     / 


TO  MY  OLD  DOG/ 


"  HE  was  a  gash  an'  faithtu'  tyke 
As  ever  lap  a  shengh  or  dyke  ; 
His  breest  was  white,  his  towsie  back 
Weel  clad  \vi'  coat  o'  glossy  black  ; 
His  gaucie  tail  wi'  upward  curl 
Hung  o'er  his  hurdies  wi'  a  swirl." 

The  Tn-a  Dogs. 

SOME  venal  bards  indite  the  lay 
To  such  themes  only  as  will  pay  ; 
Some,  fawning  round  a  [.nitron,  play 

Self-praising  airs  ; — 
Since  '  every  dog  must  have  his  day,' 

These  must  have  theirs. 


*  "In  looking  over  my -M.SS.,  this  rainy  day,  I  encountered  th 
following  poem,  written  years  ago, — one  of  my  earliest  productions 
and  never  published.  <  Love  me,  love  my  dog,'  says  the  old  adage 
It  may  be  that  the  subject-matter  of  the  verse  will  suit  the  case  o 
some  of  your  country-boy  readers  ;  or  of  some  brother  farmer,  who 
like  myself,  delights  occasionally  in  looking  back  upon  '  dog  and  gun 
days." — The  Author  to  the  Editor  of  the  Nen  England  Farmer,  Noi 
15,  1851. 


TO   MY   OLD   DOG.  117 

For  me,  friend  of  my  boyhood's  days, 
Grown  gray  in  following  my  ways, 
Though  surely  not  a  theme  for  lays 

Of  lofty  chime, 
I  '11  give  thee  all  the  hearty  praise 

Of  dog-rel  rhyme. 

Though  old,  decrepit,  deaf  and  blind, 
I  can  look  back  and  call  to  mind 
The  days  when  one  might  search  and  find, 

The  county  through, 
No  dog  more  trusty,  true  and  kind, 

Old  BEAU,  than  you ! 

Few  dogs  your  aptness  have  outdone  ; 
You  knew  all  tackle  of  the  gun ; 
Ball,  pouch,  or  horn  shown  you,  each  one 

A  whine  exacted ; 
The  gun  itself  would  make  you  run 

Almost  distracted. 

When  hunting,  if  no  luck  had  we, 
Though  famous  your  veracity, 
I  've  known  you  feign  some  game  to  '  tree,' 

And  coolly  bark, 
When  fancy  even  could  not  see 

Aught  for  a  mark. 

Whene'er  with  rod  and  line  and  hook 
I  strayed  a-fishing  down  the  brook, 


118  THE   HAKP   AND   PLOW. 

You  crept  behind  with  knowing  look, 
And  watched  the  line  ; 

And  when  the  spangled  trout  I  took, 
My  joy  was  thine. 

When  furry  game  my  notice  drew, 
Low  by  the  bank  where  alders  grew 
I  set  the  trap  wherever  you 

Appeared  most  willing, 
And  in  the  morning  well  I  knew 

I  'd  make  a  shilling. 

And  when  the  corn  we  gathered  in, 
Turning  the  stooks  with  rustling  din, 
The  rat,  o'ertaken  in  his  sin, 

Paid  dear  for  stealing  ; 
One  shake,  and  he  with  ragged  skin, 

Was  past  all  feeling. 

Your  strength  and  courage  balanced  well, 
Though  sometimes  you  would  whine  and  yell 
When  'mongst  bad  company  you  fell, 

Like  honest  Tray, — 
Till  I '  maun  interfere  mysel', 

As  Burns  would  say. 

For  your  repute  I  've  been  afraid 
When  you  some  prank  of  folly  play'd, 
Or  when,  by  way  of  serenade, 

In  dog-day  weather, 
The  distant  moon  you  've  idly  bayed, 

For  hours  together. 


TO   MY   OLD   DOG.  119 

Some  few  of  all  your  tricks  were  vile, 
But  these  showed  frankness  without  guile ; 
And  yet  with  modesty  meanwhile 

You  ne'er  was  gifted  ; 
E'en  Sundays,  in  the  church  broad-isle, 
The  leg  you  've  lifted. 

With  other  dogs  you  'd  hold  a  caucus, 
And  snuff  and  growl  and  raise  a  fracas, 
Till  kicked  by  him  who  acted  Janus 

From  out  the  meeting  ; 
For  sore  with  laughter  it  did  shake  us 

To  see  your  greeting. 

Your  share  of  ills  you  've  had  to  bide  ; 
You  wear  a  bullet  in  your  side, 
And  many  scars  that  seam  your  hide 

Y7our  conflicts  tell ; 
Some  sort  of  colic  once  you  tried 

Sorely,  but  well. 

You  've  something  like  the  asthma,  too  ; 
But  few  more  ills  will  trouble  you ; 
With  life  you've  gotten  nearly  through, 

Its  joy  and  pain  ; 
Of  all  your  puppy  brethren  few 

Or  none  remain. 

But  never  shall  I  want  a  friend 
As  long  as  you  can  snuff  the  wind  ; 


120  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

And  when  your  honest  life  shall  end, 
My  ancient  brave, 

Yonder,  where  purple  poke-weeds  bend, 
Shall  be  your  grave. 

And  when,  from  hunting,  passing  by 
Your  resting-place,  I  '11  linger  nigh  ; 
The  thundering  volley  where  you  lie 

Shall  tell  your  spirit 
That  still  your  master  has  an  eye 

To  all  your  merit. 


A  "  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM." 

TOLD    FOR   THE   BENEFIT   OF   THE   SCALY  HEARER. 


'T  WAS  nightfall  on  a  summer's  day 
When  Sirius  holds  a  baneful  sway ; 
When  thunder-gusts  full  frequent  fly 
And  wrathful  thro'  the  sultry  sky  ; 
When  sudden  showers  of  roaring  rain 
Dash  drenching  o'er  the  stubble  plain ; 
Or  sheeting  mists  forbear  to  dry 
The  stooks  of  weather-blackened  rye  ; 
And  Phoebus  seems  to  loose  his  power 
To  shine  unclouded  for  an  hour  ; 
When  farmers,  vexed  with  '  horrors'  never, 
Will  gloomy  visions  have,  if  ever, — 
The  scene  occurred  which  I  disclose. 
Believe  or  not,  just  as  you  choose. 

Intent  the  silver-eel  to  take, 
I  hied  me  to  a  neighboring  lake. 
An  old  tree  root,  the  winds  had  felled, 
My  form  in  careless  posture  held  ; 
And  smothered  in  a  tempting  show, 
I  cast  the  baited  hook  below. 
11 


122  THE  HARP  AND   PLOW. 

The  dripping  moon,*  night's  ancient  daughter. 
Just  looked  upon  the  sleeping  water 
Thro'  rifted  clouds,  then  like  a  ghost 
Fled,  in  the  closing  blackness  lost. 

There  long  I  sat,  unthinking  quite, 
And  heard  the  '  voices  of  the  night :' 
Sounds  which  might  puzzle  one  to  tell 
Who  made  them  all,  this  side  of  hell ; 
Musquetoes,  whose  delightful  buzz 
Might  e'en  provoke  the  man  of  Uz  ; 
Bull-frogs,  grum  base  and  barytone, 
The  drowsy  pur-r,  and  doleful  groan  ; 
While  from  the  top  of  neighboring  tree 
An  owlet  whined  a  symphony — 
Such  sounds,  too,  as,  I  am  thinking, 
Set  your  fisherman  to  winking, 
For  music,  tho'  it  opes  the  ears, 
Oft  shuts  the  eyes  of  him  who  hears. 

All  on  a  sudden,  as  we  say. 
Just  along  shore  a  little  way, 
Reclined  upon  the  sloping  bank, 
Appeared  a  figure,  long  and  lank. 
He  held  a  rod  of  extra  length, 
Made  less  for  beauty  than  for  strength  ; 


•'  A  sign  of  rainy  weather  in  New  England,  derived  from  the  an 
cient  Indian  tribes,  is  the  appearance  of  the  new  moon,  viz  :  when  its 
horns  are  blunt,  and  its  shape  is  such  (to  use  the  Indian  expression) 
that  it  will  not  "  hold  water/" 


A  "  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM."  123 

It  had  a  gallows  look  about  it ; 

(You  should  have  seen  it  if  you  doubt  it.) 

His  line  was  such  another  cord 

As  he  used  who  betrayed  his  Lord, 

And  such  as  hangmen  now-days  use 

To  knot  the  ignominious  noose. 

His  hook,  e'en  in  the  gloom  of  night, 

Shone  with  peculiar  auric  light ; 

No  hollow  tinsel  of  the  tinner. 

But  SOLID  GOLD,  as  I  'm  a  sinner  ! 

For  baits  he  used  as  many  kinds 

As  were  his  fish  of  different  minds  ; 

(Not  that  small  fry  have  minds,  but  then 

What  may  he  use  who  catches  men?) 

Beside  him  stood  a  basket  large 

\nd  black  as  hold  of  charcoal  barge, 

And  thro'  its  sooty  meshes  steamed 

Sulphureous  fumes  that  lurid  gleamed  ! 

0,  for  a  sheet  of  heavy  fold, 
As  strong  as  trunk  of  oak  unrolled ! 
0,  that  a  pen  of  mountain  pine, 
And  strength  to  wield  the  same  were  mine  ! 
And  ink  black-mixed  in  vasty  tub, 
To  write  the  name  of  Beelzebub  ! 
For  who  else  could  that  being  be 
Seen  angling  then  and  there  by  me  ? 

Sweet  friend,  what  would  have  been  your  case 
That  night,  had  you  been  in  my  place  ? 


124  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

Instead  of  facing  your  old  master. 
Your  coward  shanks  would  borne  you  faster, 
And  not  the  less  against  your  will 
Than  ran  the  rogues  at  Springfield  hill.* 
Methought  I  'd  stay  awhile  and  watch 
To  see  what  sort  of  fry  ho  'd  catch  ; 
Without  the  power,  if  not  the  \vish, 
To  spare  you  from  the  list  of  Jin/t. 

He  tied  a  rag  of  super  cloth 
With  shining  web  of  silken  moth 
Around  his  hook,  and  thus  equipped 
His  line  within  the  flood  he  dipped. 
But  scarce  his  hook  was  out  of  sight 
Before,  it  seemed,  he  felt  a  bite  ; 
And  drawing  up  again  his  line, 
His  luck  proved  better  much  than  mine. 
One  thing  was  something  strange  to  see : 
As  soon  as  e'er  his  fisli  were  free 
From  out  the  water,  they  appeared 
No  more  the  finny  things  he  reared ; 
But  metamorphosed  seemed  the  creatures 
To  human  forms  with  human  features. 

The  fish  now  dangling  on  his  string 
Was  but  a  brainless  trifling  thing 
Such  as  along  a  city's  walks 
With  consequential  bearing  stalks  ; 

*  The  discomfiture  of  the  rebels  during  the  Shays  insurrection  at 
the  arsenal  hill  in  Springfield.  The  story  is  told  of  one  man  who  ran 
thirty  miles,  with  orily  an  occasional  stopping  to  take  breath. 


A  "  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM."  125 

Who  owes  to  tailors'  arts  and  dresses, 

The  consequence  that  he  possesses  ; 

Arid  lisping  tolls  his  brother  asses 

How  he  disdains  the  '  lower  classes.' 

NICK  merely  deigned  this  word  on  him 

Of  smirking  face  and  pun  v  limb : — 

'  I  only  want  your  body,  Zany  ; 

Prime  souls  are  scarce — you  haven't  any.'' 

For  as  he  looked  upon  his  face 

He  knew  the  worthless  minim  dace 

Was  only  fit  for  making  bait ; 

And  so  consigned  him  to  his  fate. 

Upon  his  hook  he  kept  the  wretch, 

And  cast,  another  fish  to  catch. 

A  greedy  pike,  was  darting  by, 
With  hungry  jaw  and  eager  eye  ; 
He  saw  the  game  on  which  to  sup, 
And  in  a  moment  snatched  it  up. 
NICK  with  the  barb-inflicting  twitch 
Took  in  his  gills  a  cruel  stitch  ; 
And  as  he  seized  the  rav'nous  pike, 
In  tone  of  voice  not  much  unlike 
The  sound  of  saw-mill  in  full  motion, 
He  thus  accused  him  of  devotion : 

'  Give  us  your  hand,  my  old  flint-skinner  ! 
Don't  feign  surprise,  my  hopeful  sinner! 
We  've  partners  been  these  many  years, 
And  now  we  '11  settle  your  arrears. 
Your  credit  is  so  poor  of  late 
Not  even  I  can  longer  wait ; 
ii* 


126  THE   HARP   AND    PLOW. 

Besides,  you  've  aped  me  in  my  power, 
By  seeking  whom  you  might  devour  ; 
You  've  wronged  the  poor  man  of  his  rights 
You  've  robbed  the  widow  of  her  mites  ; 
You  've  often  watched,  as  now,  to  catch 
Some  silly  addle-headed  wretch 
More  flush  of  money  than  of  brains, 
And  turned  his  pockets  for  your  gains  ; 
In  all  your  deal  and  all  your  diction 
The  truth  was  stranger  far  than  fiction, 
But  tho'  mankind  were  gulled  by  you  ; 
One  thing  is  sure,  I  've  got  my  due. 
lie  said,  and  with  infernal  grin 
His  basket  ope'd,  and  thrust  him  in. 
I  noticed  as  the  lid  he  raised, 
The  brimstone  flame  beneath  it  blazed  ! 

A  lull-head  was  the  next  he  took. 
The  groper  bit  the  naked  hook  1 
Old  Satan  grinned  another  smile, 
And  thus  delighted  him  awhile  : 

'  Old  churl,  I  know  you  to  the  letter  ! 
You,  too,  are  pretty  deep  my  debtor  ; 
A  writing  for  your  soul  I  hold, 
The  price  of  which  was  paid  in  gold  ; 
But  you  were  made  of  horse-leech  stuff, 
And  never  knew  you  had  enough, 
But  you  must  cry  for  more,  until 
It 's  my  belief  you  '11  get  your  fill. 
What  now  avails  your  hoarded  wealth  ': 
By  meanness  yours  if  not  by  stealth. 


A  "MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM."  127 

What  now  avails  your  sneaking  life, 
Grudging  your  worthless  self  and  wife 
The  necessary  cost  of  living, 
And  knowing  no  such  word  as  yiviny  j 
If  aught  you  'd  had  to  pay  for  breath 
Long  since  you  would  have  choked  to  death. 
Faith  !  you  're  too  mean  for  me  to  take  you  ; 
But  yet  I  must,  and  I  will  bake  you  !' 
He  spoke,  and  'neath  the  basket  lid 
The  poor  old  selfish  miser  hid. 

With  Bible  leaves  he  baited  next, 
Well  filled  with  many  a  pious  text. 
An  eel  observed  the  piece  of  writ 
And  quick  enough  he  swallowed  it ; 
Which  done,  he  thought  to  bolt  away  ; 
But  Beehe  thought  he  'd  better  stay. 

'  You  slippery  dog!'  quoth  he,  '  I  knew 
WThat  baits  of  all  best  suited  you. 
I  've  seen  you  often  read  the  look, 
In  sack-cloth  garb  with  solemn  look  ; 
But  never  saw  you  read  alone — 
'T  was  when  some  one  was  looking  on. 
I  've  minded  you  full  oft  at  meeting, 
To  give  you  there  a  hearty  greeting  ; 
I  've  heard  you  with  lip-service  pray 
The  devil's  kingdom  might  decay, 
But  I  've  to  thank  you  for  your  zeal 
Foremost  in  furthering  my  weal ; 


128  THE    HARP    AND    PLOW. 

I  've  seen  you  grieve  for  negroes'  woes 
While  the  poor  beast  beneath  your  blows 
Has  cried  like  Balaam's  ass  aloud, 
Below  your  cruel  burdens  bowed  ! 
I  've  seen  you  give  to  build  a  church 
Enough  to  freight  a  bark  of  birch, 
And  have  it  blazoned  in  the  papers 
To  hide  your  mean  deceitful  capers  ; 
But  when  your  washerwoman  came, 
With  hard  work  and  rheumatics  lame, 
Begg'd  her  bill  cashed,  with  tale  of  sorrosv, 
You  've  bid  her  call  again  to-morrow  ; 
Put  on  your  specs  and  scan'd  it  o'er, 
And  swore  as  Peter  never  swore. — 
No  mistress  Potiphar  could  slur  you, 
Indignant  at  your  stalwart  virtue  ; 
Chaste  Joseph's  story,  let  me  mention, 
Was  quite  beyond  your  comprehension, 
For  had  you  his  temptation  known, 
Your  '  garment'  still  had  been  your  own. 
I  '11  toast  you  on  my  three-tined  spit. 
You  sweet,  old,  precious  hypocrite  !' 
The  wretch,  with  loud  heart-rending  screech 
Was  soon  beyond  all  pity's  reach  ! 

Then  with  another  smile  infernal 
The  devil  took  a  certain  Journal 
And  fixed  it  on  his  hook  for  bait ; 
Nor  did  he  long  for  nibblers  wait. 
One  of  those  things  which  wear  a  shell, 
That  half  their  time  in  water  dwell — 


A  "MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM."  129 

The  snapping  kind,  famed  for  their  spite, 
Was  nothing  loath,  it  seemed,  to  bite. 
As  soon  as  e'er  it  came  afloat, 
Behold,  it  wore  a  petticoat ! 
There  was  no  sweet  expression  tender 
By  which  to  designate  her  gender, 
And  nothing  but  the  coats  she  wore 
Removed  my  doubtings  on  that  score. 

'  Madam,  I  hope  you  're  well  to-night !' 
Cried  Sootie,  as  she  hove  in  sight ; 
'  But  you  must  know  that  moral  journal 
Is  what  I  wish  to  have  diurnal, 
And  o'er  the  country  wide  extend, 
For  I  'm  the  gainer  in  the  end.' 

Her  face  with  ire  began  to  bleach  ; 
Quoth  she,  '  For  you  that 's  pretty  speech  ! 
If  you  're  a  '  nigger,' — as  your  hue 
Of  sooty  black  betokens  you, — 
You  're  quite  familiar  let  me  tell  you  ; 
Your  distance  keep  ere  I  compel  you  ! 
My  talk  about  man's  brotherhood 
May  for  profession  all  be  good, 
But  practice  goes  another  gait, — 
A  ni</(/er  my  associate  !' 

Just  then  thoughts  of  a  different  kind 
Seemed  suddenly  to  cross  her  mind, 
And  she  went  on  in  tone  more  civil : 
;  It  may  be,  though,  that  you  're  the  devil ; 


130  THE    HARP   AND    PLOW. 

What  business,  pray,  have  you  with  me  ? 

We  surely  cannot  disagree. 

Have  n't  I  left  my  proper  sphere 

To  spread  my  scandals  far  and  near  ? 

Left  my  '  old  man,'  I  swore  to  cherish, 

To  cold  potatoes  or  to  perish  ? 

My  poor  neglected  brats  forsaken 

Till  you  've  apprenticed  them,  and  taken  ? 

Have  I  not  fired  with  zealous  rage 

To  hear  rebuke  from  some  old  sage, 

Or  read  the  apostolic  page  ? 

Sought  out  each  fire-and-tow  convention 

Fierce  for  polemics  and  contention  ? 

Have  I  not  ever  cast  aloof 

Instruction  and  '  despised  reproof,' 

And  as  a  consequence,  you  see, 

Been  full  of  general  deviltry  ? 

And  now  is  this  the  way  it  ends  ? 

Is  this  the  way  you  '  back  your  friends  ?' 

'  Softly,  my  dear,'  observed  old  Sootie, 
And  seized  the  bold  unblushing  beauty ; 
'  You  've  done  all  this,  I  '11  not  deny — 
Or  rather  it  was  you  and  I. 
Some  things  you  've  done  in  boiling  blood, 
And  thought  that  you  was  doing  good  ; 
But  let  me  whisper  in  your  ear, 
Your  mind  was  very  far  from  clear. 
Ignorance  of  the  law,  we  read, 
Is  no  excuse  for  evil  deed  ; 


A  "MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM."  131 

And  since  you  're  fond  of  so  much  fire, 
You  shall  have  more  than  you  desire. 
I'll  show  you  where  we  keep  it  bright 
And  never  rake  it  up  at  night ; 
And  you  shall  fill  a  cozy  nitch  in 
The  pot-hook  ward  of  my  back-kitchen.' 

One  thing  was  certain,  if  not  pretty  : 
The  woman-fish  seemed  far  most  gritty; 
But  zeal  is  woful  without  knowledge, 
In  man  or  woman,  cot  or  college. 

Old  NICK  got  up  and  took  his  spawn, 
And  in  a  thunder-peal  was  gone  ! 
It  fairly  made  the  tree  roots  shake, 
And  stirred  the  water  in  the  lake. 
Some  eel,  I  found,  had  got  my  line ; 
No  longer  was  the  tackle  mine  ; 
And  as  the  plashing  drops  descended, 
Waking,  my  homeward  way  I  wended. 
I  '11  go  and  give  those  FISH  a  warning, 
Thought  I,  as  soon  as  dawns  the  morning  ; 
And  tell  them,  ere  it  is  too  late, 
Be  careful  how  they  take  the  bait. 
The  hook  will  prick  them,  bye  and  bye, 
And  Satan  then  will  have  a  fry. 
And  you,  good  soul,  for  whom  I  write, 
Think  of  the  FISH  were  caught  that  night ! 


EPISTLE  TO  A  DISTINGUISHED  FRIEND. 


You  ask  me  if  I  never  feel 
A  sadness  o'er  my  spirit  steal, 

A  sort  of  nameless  grief  ? 
My  honored  friend,  an  answer  true 
I  '11  render,  and  will  hint  to  you 

An  inkling  of  relief: 

A  sadness  o'er  my  spirit  conies 

At  times,  and  shrouds  it  with  the  glooms 

Of  moonless,  starless  night ; 
I  take  a  dark  prophetic  ken, 
And  envy  gropers  amongst  men 

\Vho  never  miss  the  light. 

Remembered  scenes,  remembered  words 
A  sudden  thrill  of  rnem'ry's  chords, 

Ope  to  this  sombre  page  ; 
One  feels  what  he  cannot  portray, 
But  just  contents  himself  to  say, 

'  Gone  is  the  golden  age  !' 


EPISTLE  TO  A  DISTINGUISHED   FRIEND  133 

How  thoughtless  some  of  Adam's  race  ! 
Content  their  daily  round  to  trace, 

The  present  is  their  all ; 
They  move  on  one  dead  level  line, 
Move,  live,  and  die,  and  '  make  no  sign  ;' 

They  neither  climb  nor — fall. 

And  yet,  compared  with  him  they  're  blest, 
Whose  spirit  never  is  at  rest, 

Whose  game  is  high  and  low  ; 
Whose  heart's  a  harp  of  many  strings 
From  which  life's  every  action  brings 

The  notes  of  joy  or  woe. 


We  read  that  DAVID  in  his  haste 
Called  all  men  liars ;  haste  at  least 

May  be  to  me  imputed  ; 
If  just  to  live  and  eat  and  drink 
Is  to  be  blest,  we  'd  better  think 

E'en  brutes  divinely  suited. 

Now,  friend,  if  honors  and  a  name, 
If  joys  of  home  and  bays  of  fame, 

Still  leave  you  a  '  plucked  pigeon  ;' 
Permit  me,  drawing  to  a  close, 
To  recommend  for  your  repose 

A  trial  of  religion. 
12 


134  THE   HARP  AND   PLOW. 

The  truly  pious  man  is  blest ; 

To  him  life's  storms  that  us  molest 

Are  harmless  in  their  fury  ; 
Each  trial  he 's  prepared  to  face, 
FAITH  sits,  the  judge,  upon  his  case, 

HOPE'S  angels  are  his  jury. 


EPITAPH. 


BENEATH  the  verdant  turf  and  valley's  clod, 
From  all  the  toils  of  life  she  slumbers  well : 

But  in  the  bosom  of  her  Father,  GOD, 

And  in  our  faithful  hearts  she  still  shall  dwell. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  VALLEY. 

WRITTEN   IN   PROSPECT   OF    IMMEDIATE   DEPARTURE. 


SCENES  of  my  childhood,  loved  and  dear ! 

Incentives  fond  of  memory ! 
Sweet  in  the  greenly  budding  year, 

Joyous  in  vernal  melody  ! 
FATE,  iron-hearted,  bids  me  fly  ; 

Who  at  his  mandate  may  rebel  ? 
With  swelling  heart  and  tearful  eye 

I  pause  to  take  a  sad  farewell. 

Your  floods,  Connecticut,  adieu  ! 

Your  torrent's  solemn,  ceaseless  roar. 
What  blissful  moments  I  review 

Along  your  winding,  woody  shore  ! 
How  oft  beneath  umbrageous  elm, 

There  wandering,  I  have  paused  to  rest, 
And  seen  the  verge  of  fairy  realm 

Mirrored  within  thy  trembling  breast ! 

Farewell,  sweet  ever-flowing  brook, 
From  winter's  frigid  fetters  clear  ; 

I  give  thee  now  a  parting  look, 
I  lend  a  tributary  tear. 


136  THE   HAKP  AND   PLOW. 

The  years  to  me  that  careful  grow, 
Thy  careless  murmurs  still  prolong ; 

Could  he  that  muses  o'er  thy  flow, 
Awake  with  thee  undying  song ! 

Farewell  dear  hamlet  of  my  own, 

Endeared  by  every  tender  tie  ; 
Oft  shalt  thou  give  to  memory  tone 

When  weary  leagues  between  us  lie  ! 
Farewell  the  social  hearth  where  Love, 

A  heaven-commissioned  angel  came, — 
Strong  as  the  faith  can  mountains  move,* 

Warm  as  the  crepitating  flame. 

With  heart-felt  grief,  farewell  my  friends ! 

Oft  such  we  hailed  ;  as  such  we  part ; 
If  parting  to  life's  verge  extends, 

Till  then  my  hand — yea,  more,  my  heart ; 
Farewell  my  foes,  if  such  there  be, 

For  I  myself  am  foe  to  none  ; 
If  any  would  have  injured  me, 

They  've  failed  in  what  they  would  have  done 

Sweet  valley  of  my  birth,  adieu  ! 

The  cradle  of  my  rustic  muse ; 
And  shall  a  bard  departing  now, 

The  tribute  of  a  lay  refuse  ? 
As  soon  might  Phoebus  yield  to  night 

When  glowing  high  at  Summer's  noon  ! 

*  Matthew  xxi  chapter,  21  verse. 


FAREWELL   TO   THE   VALLEY.  137 

As  soon  his  brilliant  blaze  of  light 

Eclipse  the  pale-faced  midnight  moon  ! 

These  weary  feet  of  mine  have  strayed 

Before  from  thee  a  mighty  way  ; 
With  Fortune's  flying  foot-ball  played — 

Myself  in  stranger  lands  astray. 
I  wist  not  whither  I  was  led, 

My  life  as  changeful  as  a  dream  ; 
Now  blanket-clad  and  venison-fed, 

My  drink  the  Indian-haunted  stream. 

Anon  my  home  a  crowded  street, 

Tamed  to  a  city's  dust  and  noise, 
Where  soul  is  lost  in  vain  conceit, 

And  pride  the  nobler  man  destroys. 
And  if  thy  wandering  son  has  seen 

Sights  which  might  gladden  one  to  see, 
Or  brighter  climes  attractive  been, 

Fain  would  he  dwell,  dear  vale,  in  thee. 

Give  to  the  son  of  nature  wild 

The  romance  of  the  mighty  West ; 
Give  to  the  fop — the  name  of  child; 

Give  sumptuous  viands  to  the  guest ; 
Give  to  the  brave,  adventurous  tar 

The  boisterous  music  of  the  sea  ; 
But  shine  for  once,  propitious  star, 

And  give  my  valley-home  to  me ! 
#12 


138  THE   HARP  AND   PLOW. 

Scenes  of  my  childhood,  loved  and  dear  ! 

Fast  imaged  on  my  memory  ! 
All  sweetly  glimmering  thro'  a  tear, 

Enchanting  now  with  melody  ; 
Fate,  with  harsh  mandate,  bids  me  fly ; 

With  stern  resolve  I  nerve  my  mind ; 
There  is  a  POWER  that  casts  the  die, 

And  to  that  power  I  'm  resigned. 


IF  keeping  Sabbaths  saves  the  soul, 
This  man's  is  now  in  heaven ; 

One  in  the  week  sufficed  not  him — 
He  hallowed  all  the  seven. 


THE  MOON  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 


IT  was  a  wild  and  far-off  land 
Where  nature's  savage  realms  expand 
Arrayed  by  her  primeval  hand 

In  virgin  dress ; 
Where  stretched,  untouched  by  axe  or  brand, 

The  wilderness. 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  our  frontier, 
Where  Indian  tribes  pursue  the  deer, 
And  light  the  council-fire  in  fear 

Of  white  man's  face, 
Who  prowls  for  them  and  plunder  near, 
Black-souled  and  base ! 

It  was  a  chill  December  night ; 
The  ice  had  locked  the  waters  tight, 
And  winter's  cheerless  mantle  white 

O'er  earth  was  spread, 
And  nature  seemed  all  lifeless  quite — 
Cold,  drear,  and  dead. 


140  THE    HARP   AND    PLOW. 

By  fickle,  varying  fortune  led, 
Like  Crusoe  or  the  Raven-fed, 
I  spread  iny  blanket  for  a  bed, 

But  not  of  rest ; 
For  sleep  had  from  my  eyelids  fled, 

And  peace,  my  breast. 

Beneath  a  rattling  roof  I  lay, 
And  thro'  the  walls  of  crannied  clay 
I  heard  old  Boreas  whistling  play, 

The  drear  hours  long, 
And  shivering  wished  for  power  to  stay 

His  fiendish  song. 

As  if  to  make  the  scene  more  drear, 
At  times  was  wafted  to  my  eai1 
A  howl  so  wild  and  dread  to  hear, 

Like  consternation ; 
That  one  who  scarcely  felt  a  fear, 

Felt  desolation. 

Then  as  I  turned  my  restless  eye 
And  saw  the  full  moon  sailing  high, 
Slow  thro'  the  wintry  midnight  sky, 

Uprose  to  mind 
Sad,  bitter  thoughts,  and  pensively 

I  thus  repined : 

Roll  on,  bright  orb  of  frigid  light, 
That  shinest  on  this  cheerless  night, 
Cold  splendor  in  thy  blaze ! 


THE  MOON  IN  THE  WILDERNESS.       141 

How  different  to  the  human  race 
May  seem  this  night  thy  placid  face, 

And  thy  unwarming  rays  ! 
Thou  shinest  on  the  rich  and  poor, 

The  homeless,  and  the  HOME  ; 
Thy  light  is  on  the  cottage  door, 

And  on  the  lordly  dome, 

One,  peering  from  the  halls  of  ease, 
Abroad  thy  silver  splendor  sees, 

And  calls  this  beauteous  night ; 
His  hearth  sends  out  a  ruddy  glow, 
Mirth,  wine  and  music  round  him  flow, 
He  hears  the  bitter  blasts  that  blow, — 

They  lull  him  with  delight. 

Thou  seest  the  selfish  and  the  vile, 
Him  whose  black  heart  is  full  of  guile 

Tow'rd  man,  his  brother  dear  ; 
A  sort  of  ravening  human  wolf, 
More  base  than  him  whose  howl  aloof, 

So  dismal,  I  can  hear. 

And  yet  he  wants  for  nought,  mayhap, 
But,  pampered,  sits  in  Comfort's  lap, 

And  snarls  with  thankless  scorn ; 
Or  turns  his  eye  with  envious  gleam 
On  those  around,  whom  he  may  deem 

More  blest  by  Plenty's  horn. 


142  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

Thou  shinest  on  the  cottage  roof 
Where  avarice  may  find  reproof ; 

Its  inmates  lack  for  show, 
And  yet  Avith  sweet  contentment  blest, 
Perhaps  this  hour  they  calmly  rest 

"Without  a  cause  for  wo. 

Thou  look'st  on  my  New  England  home. 
Ah !  -why  should  Fortune  tempt  to  roam, 

With  falsely  promised  boon  ; 
Alluring  on  "with  fair  display, 
Seeming  at  hand,  while  far  away 

As  thou  art,  mournful  moon  ! 
E'en  so  the  child,  when  in  the  sky 

He  hails  thee  first  with  joy, 
Puts  forth  his  hand  with  cheated  eye, 

To  grasp  the  shining  toy. 

Slow  down  the  west  went  coursing  on 
The  moon,  to  leave  me  soon  alone, 
When  Boreas  in  more  plaintive  tone 

Spoke  thro'  the  wall ; 
I  listened  in  the  solemn  moan, 

An  answering  call : — 

'  What  gloomy  thoughts  pervade  thy  mind 
Incited  by  the  winter  wind  ! 
Compare  thy  case,  sad  tho'  it  be, 
To  forms  of  sterner  misery  ; 


THE  MOON   IN   THE    WILDERNESS.  143 

All  have  their  part  of  ills  to  bear, 
Nor  deem  thine  own  the  lion's  share. 

'  See  the  poor  beggar  shivering  lie, 
Stretched  by  the  cold  highway  to  die 
Inviting  to  his  aged  breast 
Death's  dart ;  for  that  may  give  him  rest. 

'  Hear  the  wrecked  sailor's  drowning  cry, 
Beneath  some  wild  inclement  sky. 
Think  what  despair  must  whelm  his  soul 
As  icy  billows  round  him  roll. 
And  roaring  rush  upon  their  prey, 
From  friends  and  country  far  away. 
Think  how  with  joy  his  feet  would  tread 
The  flooring  of  thy  humble  shed. 

'  Think  of  the  prisoner's  wretched  doom, 
Pining  within  a  dungeon's  gloom  ; 
What  groans  bespeak  his  mental  pains  ! 
How  hopeless  sound  his  clanking  chains  ! 
Perhaps  he  counts  the  winged  flight 
Of  hours  that  measure  out  the  night, 
And  knows  that  death  awaits  his  prey, 
Whene'er  the  sun  shall  bring  the  day. 

'  Think  of  the  bondman's  hopeless  woe  ! 
Can  you  his  life  of  sorrows  know  ? 
Canst  feel  his  galling  fetters  weigh 
Upon  thy  limbs  so  heavily  ? 


144  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

Art  thou  compelled  to  breathe  his  sigh 
In  vain  for  blessed  liberty  ? 

'  Hear'st  thou  the  maniac  shrieking  wild, 
From  reason,  hope,  and  home  exiled ; 
Who  to  the  freezing  wintry  air 
Mutters  the  incoherent  prayer  ? 

'  Think  of  the  countless  pallid  train 
This  night  are  racked  on  beds  of  pain  ? 
Where  sickness  trims  the  feeble  light 
That  glimmers  thro'  the  weary  night  ? 
Compare  their  hapless  lot  with  thine, 
And  no  more  in  dejection  pine.' 

I  heard,  and  felfc  reproof — resolved 
Repining  thoughts  to  rest ; 

My  heart  in  thankfulness  dissolved 
That  I  so  much  was  blest. 

And  then  the  same  instructive  strain 

Sank  to  a  lullaby  ; 
And  when  from  sleep  awaked  again, 

The  sun  was  in  the  sky. 


THE  PRAIRIE  COCK. 

A  TRUE   STORY. 


ONE  day,  when  Spring's  returning  sun 

Had  thawed  the  frozen  ground, 
And  made  the  wintry  drifts  to  run 

Dissolving  round, 
I  sallied  forth  with  shouldered  gun, 

For  shooting  bound. 

Glad  once  to  see  the  sun  again, 

And  heedless  where  I  strayed, 
I  wandered  to  a  prairie  plain, 

And  halting  made 
To  look  about,  nor  yet  in  vain 

The  scene  surveyed. 

For  as  I  stood  with  ears  erect, 
And  vision  nowise  blurred, 
I  in  the  distance  did  detect, 

And  plainly  heard 
The  hollow  voice,  I  did  suspect, 

Of  prairie-bird. — 
13 


146  THE  HARP  AND   PLOW. 

(A  vaunting  fowl,  this  prairie-cock — 

A  vain  and  silly  thing ; 
But  oft  the  hunter's  skill  he  '11  mock 

And  take  to  wing ; 
And  from  a  thousand  in  a  flock 

Not  one  he  '11  bring.) — 

Thinking  himself  secure,  no  doubt, 

The  distance  was  so  great, 
The  cock  began  to  strut  about 

At  furious  rate, 
With  wings  dropp'd  down  and  tail  spread  out, 

And  step  elate. 

The  sight  was  tempting  for  a  shot — 

Tho'  distant,  he  was  bold  ; 
The  story,  then,  it  matters  not 

How  soon  't  is  told : 
I  sent  a  bullet  to  the  spot 

And  laid  him  cold. 

And  as  I  stooped  to  pick  him  up 
I  thus  soliliquized : 

*  Poor  thing !  your  overflowing  cup 

Was  soon  capsized ; 
Upon  your  carcass  I  shall  sup, 

Unless  surprised. 

*  I'll  gather  from  this  emblem  small 

A  moral,  if  I  may  ; 


THE  PEAIKIE   COCK.  147 

Thy  fate  reminds  me  of  a  fall 

Before  to-day ; — 

PRIDE,  let  it  tower  however  tall, 

Must  sure  decay. 

'  How  oft  we  mark  the  self-conceit 

That  struts  and  shuffles  by, 
That  in  the  gutter  of  the  street 

Ere  long  may  lie  !' 
Reader,  ere  Pride  tip-toe  thy  feet, 

Turn  back  and  fly. 


IMPROMPTU. 

ON   SEEING  A   FELLOW  NODDING  IN   CHUKCH. 


THIS  surely  is  a  day  of  rest ; 

But  better  you  'd  improve  it, 
To  sink  your  head  upon  your  breast, 

And  cease  so  much  to  move  it, 


THE  WAY  IT  IS  DONE. 

A   TALE  WITH   A   MORAL. 


'T  WAS  early  one  morn,  in  a  log-cabin  land, 
Where  the  tallest  air-castles,  however,  are  planned, 
Where  swagger  is  often  mistaken  for  sense, 
And  faith  is  a  thing  of  no  small  consequence. 
I  mean  not  that  faith  which  is  taught  in  the  Bible, — 
The  backwoods  professor  would  sue  for  a  libel  ; 
The  faith  of  the  Book  sees  a  mansion  in  heaven, 
But  this  sees  a  town  where  a  stake  is  just  driven. 

'T  was  early  one  morn ;  't  was  the  fourth  of  July  ; 
Some  time  must  elapse  ere  the  sun  lit  the  sky ; 
And,  thinking  o'er  night  of  the  glorious  day, 
'T  was  natural  my  dreams,  too,  should  wander  that  way. 
So  I  dreamed,  as  a  Yankee  boy  frequently  will, 
Of  Lexington,  Concord,  and  old  Bunker  Hill  ; 
Saw  the  red-coated  column  up  Bunker  arise ; 
Heard  old  Putnam's  speech  'bout  the  '  white  of  their 
eyes.' 


THE   WAY   IT   IS   DONE.  149 

They  neared  the  redoubt,  and  the  guns  bristled  o'er ; 
But  just  as  the  Yankees  their  volley  would  pour, 

Martial  sounds  'gan  to  rise, 

And  I  opened  my  eyes, 
And  thought  't  was  a  part  of  the  dream  gone  before. 

But  I  listened,  so  still ; 

It  was  not  Bunker  Hill, 
But  without  in  the  street  they  were  making  uproar ; 

While  a  man  with  a  fife 

Squealed  as  if  for  his  life, 
And  a  dram  put  in  shakes  Ole  Bull  might  adore. 

Sleep  fled  past  a  doubt ;  so  I  dress'd  and  went  out ; 
Had  you  seen  what  I  saw,  you  'd  have  laughed  with  a 
shout : 

The  offspring  of  Orpheus,  blowing  the  fife, 

By  the  '  cut  of  his  jib,'  was  n't  long  for  this  life  ; 

For  five  feet  and  five  I  should  judge  the  utmost 

Longitudinal  metre  his  person  could  boast ; 

But  nature,  kind  dame,  had  made  up,  it  would  seem, 

Deficit  in  length,  by  the  '  breadth  of  his  beam.' 

His  hat  was  '  caved  in' — had  of  brim  scarce  a  bit ; 

He  wore  a  short  jacket,  too  small  for  a  fit ; 

And  a  ludicrous  thought  flitted  over  my  mind, 

That  the  fifer  was  very  full  breasted  behind. 

The  drummer,  beside  him,  personified  Saul ; 
As  gaunt  as  a  grey-hound,  and  bony,  and  tall. 

But  ever  I  can 

Describe  you  this  man, 

13* 


150  THE  HARP  AND  PLOW. 

I'll  state  the  condition  of  both — that  is  all : 
Though  scarcely  't  was  morn, 
They  'd  both  had  their  corn, 

Were  so  drunk,  that  to  stand,  they  must  lean  on  the 
wall ; 

The  din  and  devotion 
Inspired  them  with  motion, 

At  March  !  they  would  go  ;  but  at  Halt !  they  would 
sprawl. 

Were  I  good  with  the  charcoal,  my  tale  I'd  adorn 
With  a  sketch  of  the  drummer  that  auspicious  morn. 
A  view  of  his  figure — a  side  view — to  me 
Looked,  more  than  aught  else,  like  a  bad  figure  3  ; 
His  hat,  which  had  suffered,  was  cocked  on  one  side  ; 
His  breeks  were  too  short,  by  a  foot,  and  too  wide  ; 
On  the  toe  of  his  left  foot,  and  heel  of  his  right, 
He  hitched  to  the  tune  of  the  '  Soldier's  Delight.' 
His  aspect  was  fierce,  with  a  sprinkling  of  woe, 
His  eyes  dead  a-head,  and  his  arms  a-kimbo ; 

The  poor  fifer,  I  fear, 

When  he  staggered  too  near, 
Received  from  his  elbows  a  cruel  side  blow  ; 

A  pause  would  occur, 

A  trill  or  a  slur, 
But  the  roll  of  the  drum  was  unbroken,  I  know  ; 

For  the  sticks  down  would  come 

On  the  head  of  the  drum, 
And  the  way  rub-a-dub  rattled  out  wasn't  slow. 


THE   WAY   IT  IS   DONE.  151 

The  rabble  behind  them  were  trundling  a  gun, 

About  a  ten-pounder,  I  judged  by  the  tun; 

But  foremost,  and  leading  the  glorious  van, 

Marched  a  man,  't  is  rny  plan,  to  ban,  if  I  can. 

In  his  gait,  in  his  dress,  in  his  dignified  air, 

With  his  '  brethren  in  arms'  like  a  prince  he'd  compare  ; 

He'd  striven  for  office,  he'd  striven  for  fame, 

He  longed  for  a  deed  to  emblazon  his  name. 

The  law  was  his  hobby,  at  least  by  pretence  ; 

He  was  great  on  a  case  without  need  of  defence  ; 

And  his  talents,  beside,  most  decidedly  were, 

For  the  use  of  his  countrymen,  la  militaire.          [tion, 

How  he  lived,  the  Lord  knows  ;  but  't  was  my  calcula- 

It  was  partly  on  faith,  partly  on  speculation. 

He  appeared  to  feel  grand  ;  yea,  he  felt  rather  bigger 

Than  the  man  who  had  seen  Gen'ral   Washington's 

'  nigger !' 

But  I'll  prove  him  full  soon,  if  my  pen  doesn't  fail, 
A  '  creature  of  circumstance  ;'  so  to  our  tale. 

I  joined  in  the  march,  with  an  inkling  of  fun  ; 
The  music  rolled  on,  and  they  trundled  the  gun. 

They  came  to  a  spot — 

A  square  vacant  lot, 
Called  after  the  name  of  the  great  Washington. 

The  gun  was  now  tried, 

The  match  was  applied, 
And  there  they  '  let  sliver'  to  herald  the  sun. 

It  looked  like  a  fight, 

For  overcome  quite 
The  martial  musicians  lay  stretched  like  the  done. 


152  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

Bang!  bang!  went  the  gun,  till  there  wanted  but  one 

More  shot,  and  the  job  for  the  sunrise  was  done  ; 

'T  was  likely  to  fail,  for  I  heard  a  man  swear 

That  nothing  to  serve  for  a  wadding  was  there. 

To  fail  in  completion  the  shame  would  be  great, 

Amounting  almost  to  the  shame  of  defeat. 

No  !  that  would  n't  do  ;  they  must  give  the  last  shot, 

But  where  was  a  wadding  at  hand  to  be  got  ? 

Our  hero  stood  near,  in  contemplative  mood, 

Ruminating  a  speech,  as  a  cow  does  her  cud ; 

But,  sudden,  a  thought ! 

His  pocket  he  sought 
And  drew  forth  a  handkerchief  dirty  as  mud. 

'  Here  !  take  that !  my  lad, 

And  use  it,  e-gad  ! 
The  gun  shall  not  fail  for  the  want  of  a  wad  !' 

Soon  the  gun  roared  anew, 

Into  shreds  the  rag  flew ; — 
'  There  goes  my  best  handkerchief — silk  one — by !' 

A  drizzle  set  in  ;  and  the  gun  was  now  housed  ; 
But  fame,  for  our  hero,  was  fully  aroused. 
Her  echoing  trump  was  at  once  to  her  mouth  ; 
All  over  the  District,  east,  west,  north  and  south, 
His  name  spread  abroad ;  and,  spreading,  the  story 
Gathered  in  bulk,  while  it  gathered  him  glory  ; 
Till,  by  time  that  the  story  had  back  again  got, 
In  the  '  last  war'  he'd  killed  twenty  men  at  one  shot ! 

The  next  thing  we  see  in  the  '  People's  Gazette  ;' 
Our  hero  for  Congress  his  visage  has  set. 


THE    WAY   IT   IS   DONE.  153 

The  editor,  there,  Mr.  Butcher's-meat's-m, 
Comes  out  -with  a  column  of  something  like  this  : 

'  It  is  time  for  the  people  to  rouse  from  their  sleep  ! 
The  wolves  are  abroad  in  the  clothing  of  sheep  ; 

But  give  the  pull  long, 

The  pull  very  strong, 
The  pull  altogether,  and  we  '11  go  it  steep  ! 

'Tis  our  duty  to  sow, 

Though  our  readers  must  know, 
No  personal  benefit  hoping  to  reap, 

Come,  bards,  tune  your  lays 

To  our  candidate's  praise, 
And  we  to  the  music  our  eye  balls  will  keep. 
Our  man  is  a  patriot,  true  as  the  sun  ; 
Familiarly  known  as  the  '  SON-OF-A-GUN  !' 
For  what  man  but  he,  on  that  glorious  day 
When  patriots  gather,  as  patriots  may  ; 
When  likely  to  fail  was  the  national  round, 
And  brave  men  e'en  wept  when  no  wadding  was  found  ; 
Who  but  he  would  suffer,  unanswered,  we  say, 
His  own  private  wardrobe  to  be  shot  away  ? 
Let  his  name,  like  the  clouds,  o'er  Columbia  scud ! 
Let  his  name  brightly  gleam  in  the  annals  of  blood ! 
Let  this  deed  of  his  fame  be  embalmed  with  the  tale 
Of  Putnam's  bold  feat,  or  the  hanging  of  Hale !' 

Success  seemed  more  sure,  as  election  drew  nigher ; 
But  one  '  circumstance'  more  knocked  his  fat  in  the  fire  ; 

For  lo  !  there  was  one 

That  morn,  by  the  gun, 


154  THE   HARP  AND   PLOW. 

Who  did  not  exactly  belong  to  the  squire ; 

So  merely  for  sport 

He  spread  the  report, 
The  candidate  was  as  profane  as  a  liar ; 

That  he  stood  on  the  spot 

When  the  'kerchief  was  shot, 
And  the  squire  swore  so  bad  he  was  forced  to  retire  ! 

Enough — for  the  other  side  sought  out  this  man  ; 

A  dollar  in  hand,  and  a  swig  at  the  can. 

Deposition  was  made  'fore  a  magistrate  lawful ; 

The  man  swore  upon  oath  that  the  swearing  was  awful ; 

And  next  day  appeared  in  the  '  Voice  of  the  People' 

A  yarn  half  as  long  as  a  meeting  house  steeple. 

Therein  'twas  shown  clear,  as  the  light  of  the  sun, 

That  they  should  not  vote  for  the  Son-of-a-gun. 

They  called  on  the  people  to  rally  anew 

And  vote  for  their  candidate,  called  the  '  TRUE  BLUE.' 

He  had  all  the  other  man's  patriot  pride ; 

Was  rather  inclined  to  be  pious,  beside  ; 

Sure,  slander  pursued  him,  but  still  't  wasn't  true 

He  once  was  indicted  for  stealing  an  ewe ; 

He  held  to  equality  when  people  meet, — 

Been  seen  shaking  hands  with  a  '  nig'  in  the  street ; 

And  as  for  his  courage,  why,  blest  be  his  name, 

He  had  entered  a  house  that  was  roaring  on  flame  ! 

And  saved,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  his  life, 

A  print  representing  John  Rogers  and  wife  ; 

Then  hurrah  for  True-Blue  !  for  he  only  can  save 

Our  country  from  Ruin's  oblivious  grave  ! 


THE   WAY   IT   IS   DONE.  155 

The  contest  grew  fiercer  each  following  day, 

The  young  and  the  old  of  both  sides  joined  the  fray  ; 

Some  voters  were  bought, 

Some  duels  were  fought  ; 
One  man  had  a  part  of  his  thigli  shot  away  ; 

Both  editors  wrote, 

The  people  would  quote, 
The  candidates  mounted  the  stump  for  display  ; 

While  some  Oberlin  men, 

To  the  number  of  ten, 
Bethought  it  a  matter  for  which  they  should  pray. 

The  day  came  at  last,  the  ballots  were  cast, 
And  both  party's  colors  were  nailed  to  the  mast  ; 

But  the  Oberlin  men 

To  the  number  of  ten, 
Struck  the  friends  of  Son-of-a-gun  all  aghast  ! 

For  neither  they  knew 

The  '  Gun'  or  'True  Blue.' 
But  thought  it  the  safest  to  vote  for  the  last. 
And  this,  as  their  reasons  for  voting,  they  gave  : 

A  man  who  would  greet, 

A  poor  nig  in  the  street, 
Must  certainly  be  a  good  friend  of  the  slave  ; 

And  a  man  who  would  swear, 

As  profane  as  the  'square, 
Must  certainly  be  an  ungodly  old  knave. 


'  True  Blue'  was  returned  by  majority  ten 
And  those  were  the  votes  of  the  Oberlin  men. 


156  TIIE   HAKP   AND   PLOW. 

MORAL. 

Let  every  '  constituent'  reading  this  scrawl, 
Who 's  seen  an  election,  and  lived  through  it  all, 
With  deepest  of  blushes  acknowledge,  forsooth, 
That  the  foregoing  tale  isn't  far  from  the  truth. 
When  a  president's  up,  or  lower  the  grade 
Of  seekers  for  office,  a  hubbub  is  made  ; 
A  green  one,  perusing  the  prints  at  such  times, 
Would  deem  they'd  selected  a  man  for  his  crimes. 
And  though  we  can't  say  but  a  '  Son-of-a-gun,' 
Or  another  '  True  Blue,'  too  often  is  run, 

'T  would  be  better  by  far 

To  have  less  wordy  war, 
Less  blazonry,  billingsgate,  twitting,  and  pun  ; 

For  it  all  ends  in  self, 

Both  sides  want  the  pelf, — 
Division  takes  place  when  the  battle  is  won  ; 

While  some  Oberlin  men, 

To  the  number  of  ten, 
Or  more,  just  step  in,  and  the  business  is  done. 


EPISTLE  TO  A  WESTERN  POET. 


January  31,  1848. 

DEAR  BUCKEYE  : — Are  you  hale  and  well, 
And  have  you  time  on  this  to  dwell  ? — 
Had  I  but  wings,  my  feet  to  spell 

With  flying  power, 
My  knuckles  on  your  door  should  tell 

In  half  an  hour ! 

The  time  will  come,  I  '11  bet  the  flip, 
When  one  may  take  a  match,  a  chip, 
And  mount  a  broomstick,  with  his  hip 

Astride  a  kettle, 
And  up  steam,  till  his  speed  outstrip 

The  wind,  a  little. 

In  this  our  day  and  generation, 
In  this  our  mighty  Yankee  nation, 
We  've  but  to  make  a  '  calculation,' 

And  next  we  hear 
E'en  red-haired,  sanguine  Expectation, 

Is  distanced,  clear. 
14 


158  THE   HARP  AND   PLOW. 

We  write  by  lightning  ;  next  no  wonder 
If  we  should  talk  by  means  of  thunder ; 
Cotton  will  now  rend  rocks  asunder, 

But,  bye  and  bye, 
A  cat-tail,  thrust  a  mountain  under, 

Will  blow 't  sky  high ! 


0,  mighty  land  ! — including  Texas  ! 
Star-gazing  statesmen  soon  will  vex  us  : — 
The  moon  they  '11  say,  cries  out,  '  Annex  us, 

And  make  us  one  ;' 
And  other  nations  will  expect  us 

To  hitch  'em  on. 


But  sir,  since  you  are  pleased  to  care 
What  my  '  designs  and  prospects'  are, 
And  wish  '  biography'  to  share 

My  brief  epistle, — 
There  must  be  blown,  you  're  well  aware, 

Ego's  own  whistle. 

Here,  on  the  spot  from  whence  I  write, 
My  eyes  first  opened  to  the  light ; 
Whether  a  rhyme  was  squealed  on  sight — 

'T  is  safe  to  doubt  it ; 
My  recollection  is  not  quite 

Distinct  about  it. 


EPISTLE   TO   A   WESTERN   POET.  159 

Still,  sir,  't  is  hard  to  note  the  time 
When  first  I  perpetrated  rhyme  ; 
A  whisper  of  the  art  sublime 

Aye  hung  around  me  ; 
The  same  in  *  slips'  and  youthful  prime 

The  muses  found  me. 


Down  Nature's  lanes  I  loved  to  stray, 
Her  lamp  poured  light  around  my  way, 
Art,  with  her  polish-giving  ray, 

Shone  not  upon  it ; 
To  her  I  '11  never  have  to  pay 

For  one  poor  sonnet. 

If  Nature  does  not  make  the  man, 
No  famous  school  or  college  can  ; 
Though  parrot-like  he  learns  to  scan 

His  Latin  grammar, 
His  knowledge  goes  no  farther  than 

The  tutor's  hammer. 


When  in  my  teens,  by  Fancy  led, 
Far  westward  ho  !  I '  drew  my  sled  ;' 
There  hunter-clad,  and  hunter-fed, 

I  roved  and  learned  ; 
Shot  deer,  wild  western  romance  read, 

And  prairies  burned. 


160  THE  HARP  AND   PLOW. 

Your  lakes,  like  shoreless  seas,  in-laud ; 
Your  prairies  that  like  space  expand  ; 
Your  streams,  and  mighty  woods,  are  grand 

Beyond  my  praise  ; 
But  dear  New  England  will  command 

My  heart  and  lays. 

Her  mountains  bleak,  her  sheltered  dales, 
Her  Borean  blasts,  and  heathful  gales, 
Her  brooks,  her  fertile  river-vales, 

Her  ocean-coast ; 

These,  till  the  lamp  of  nature  fails, 
Inspire  me  most. 

Here,  too,  was  given  to  the  light 
The  rural  lays  these  scenes  incite  ; 
Hence,  lately  that  Thanksgiving  Night 

Was  blown  abroad, 
About  which  you  were  pleased  to  write 

And  kindly  laud. 

I  may  not  like  LONGFELLOW  chime 
A  '  Psalm  of  life,'  in  strains  sublime  ; 
Or  reach  that  high  poetic  clime 

Where  BRYANT  flies ; 
Where  DRAKE,  with  his  bold  bannered  rhyme," 

Neglected  lies. 

*  Vide  "  The  American  Flag"— J.  R.  Drake, 


EPISTLE   TO  A   WESTERN   POET.  161 

1  may  not  paint  with  sweet  NAT.  WILLIS 
The  beauty  of  exquisite  Phillis ; 
Or  vie  with  any  bard  whose  skill  is 
In  flowery  diction ; 
You  know  their  soul-inspiring  rill  is 

Fount,  Classic  Fiction. 

Without  the  power  if  not  desire, 
With  these  to  tempt  the  regions  higher, 
My  coat  of  arms  the  rural  lyre 

And  good  old  plough  ; 
These,  bright  with  patriotic  fire, 

Will  serve  me,  now. 

'Gainst  Fame  I  may  not  breathe  a  ban ; 
She 's  dear  to  the  poetic  clan, 
More  so  by  far,  it  may  be,  than 

To  Clays  and  Catos  ; 
But  fame  will  never  give  a  man 
Pork  and  potatoes. 

So  round  and  round  the  furrowed  plain 
Anon  I  '11  chase  the  plough  again ; 
And  dropping  egotistic  strain, 

Now  sign  my  card  ; 
Meanwhile,  yours  truly  will  remain 

The  *  PEASANT  BARD.' 

14* 


EPISTLE 

TO    THE    AUTHOR    OF  THE    ADDRESS,  "  TO    THE    *  PEASANT 
BARD,'  MOUNTED  ON  PEGASUS,  AND  TUNING  HIS  LYRE." 


Jr.\E  23,  1850. 

Last  evening,  seated  in  my  door, 
(Day  in  the  cornfield  being  o'er,) 
I  took  the  '  RAMBLER'  to  explore 

Its  pages  fair, 

And  note  what  news  the  week  before 
Was  fresh  and  rare. 

But  thirst  for  news  the  moment  fled, 
That  I  your  kind  address  had  read  ; 
Visions  of  laurels  round  my  head 

LTprose  in  place. 
(How  vanity,  by  flattery  led, 

Will  stalk  apace  !) 

But  no  ;  you  're  not  accused  by  me 
Of  using  fulsome  flattery  ; 
Of  something  more  like  sympathy 

It  seems  to  savor  ; 
So  blow  your  granite  whistle  free, 

Sans  fear,  sans  favor. 


EPISTLE   TO   AN   AUTHOR.  163 

That '  winged  beast'  that  I  bestride 
Must  go  free-will,  if  I  would  ride  ; 
lie  '11  bear  no  spur  or  whip  o'er  hide 

To  urge  him  faster  ; 
Indeed,  I  ne'er  could  quite  decide 

Which  was  the  master. 


For  when  upon  his  back  I  spring 
To  urge  him, — he  's  another  thing  ; 
Not  from  a  feather  of  his  wing 

The  dust  he  '11  shake  ; 
That  '  lyre'  is  tuneless, — not  a  string 
Will  music  make. 


Then  off  I  get,  his  halter  slip, 
Bring  down  the  lyre,  thwack  !  o'er  his  hip, 
And  cry,  begone  !  you  lazy  rip  ! 

Stupid  and  sullen  ! 
And  off  he  is  with  pendent  lip 

Munching  a  mullen. 


No  more  your  hardship  minds  him  then, 
Till,  lo  !  anon  he  comes  again 
With  head  erect  and  flowing  mane, 

And  eyes  a-glowing ; 
And  presto,  over  hill  and  plain 

We  're  soaring,  going. 


164  THE   HAHP   AND   PLOW. 

Though  puffed  with  praise,  or  starved  so  lean 
By  cold  neglect,  his  ribs  be  seen, 
Jockies  shall  never  call  him  mean 

Amongst  the  mighty  ; 
I  would  not '  swap'  him — no,  not  e'en 

For  Zack's  <  old  Whitey.i 


And  now,  one  word  about  your  '  prayer ;' 
I  've  stated  matters  as  they  are  ; 
Such  as  he  is  I  cannot  spare 

My  beast  of  story  ; 
The  '  Peasant  Bard'  he  yet  must  bear 

To  realms  of  glory ! 

But  this  I  give  you, — note  it  well : 
Hard  by  Parnassus  one  may  dwell 
And  learn  to  poise  a  sounding  shell, 

Or  tune  a  lyre, 

But  nature's  GOD  must  give  the  spell — 
The  sacred  fire.      / 

*  The  foiaeus  war-horse  of  President  Taylor. 


IMPROMPTU, 

ON   A  DISTANT   VIEW   OF  MOUNT  MONADNOCK, 


/  YONDER  the  Mountain-monarch  looms — 

The  eye  with  grandeur  fills ; 
His  head  begirt  with  cloudy  glooms, 
His  foot  •with  woody  hills  ! 

Mighty  Monadnock  !  what  art  thou, 

So  regal,  lofty,  grand, 
To  HIM  who  heaved  thy  heavenward  brow, 

And  graved  thee  by  His  hand  ? 

A  pebble,  by  Almighty  plan 

Cast  on  the  sands  of  Time, 
To  show  the  little  creature,  man, 

GOD'S  trifles  are  sublime,  . 


A  POOR  MAN'S  EPITAPH. 


No  more  by  Fortune's  freaks  abused, 
No  more  by  brother  man  misused, 
No  more  of  Folly's  deeds  accused — 

His  actions  done, 

With  Nature's  works  no  more  amused, 
Here  lies  her  son  ! 

When  Ruin,  demon-like,  assailed  him 
He  ne'er  complained  that  trouble  ailed  him, 
For  hope  of  heaven  never  failed  him 

While  life  remained, 
And  seeing  Death  approach,  he  hailed  him 

With  joy  unfeigned. 

He  's  gone  of  better  clime  in  quest, 
Where  all  the  '  weary  are  at  rest ;' 
And  said,  with  fears  no  more  opprest, 

He  hoped  to  rise 
And  enter,  as  a  welcome  guest, 

In  Paradise. 


IMPROMPTU.  167 

Pilgrim,  who  strays  this  hillock  near, 
Didst  know  the  one  who  slumbers  here  ? 
His  foibles  shun  with  cautious  fear, 

His  virtues  heed ; 
Yea,  follow  VIRTUE  wheresoe'er 

Her  steps  may  lead  ! 


IMPROMPTU, 

TO   THE   CHARTER   OAK,  (HARTFORD)    ON   BEING   REFUSED 

PERMISSION,   WITH   OTHERS,  TO   APPROACH  THE 

TREE,  SEPT.  19,  1839. 


A  clever  de'il,  in  Eden's  yard, 
Kept  the  forbidden  tree  ; 

But  who,  approach  to  thee  debar'd, 
Can  say  as  much  of  thee  ? 


INFERIOR  ANIMALS  AFFORD   INSTRUCTION 

TO  MAN. 


As  the  loquacious  geese  upon  the  wing, 
Beguiling  labor,  never  cease  to  sing  ; 
As  the  poor  bee,  half  drowned  in  soaking  rain, 
Dries  his  wet  wing  and  buzzes  forth  again ; 
As  the  good  dog  obeys  his  master's  will, 
Thro'  good  and  evil  his  companion  still ; 
As  the  meek  lamb,  beneath  the  butcher's  knife, 
In  conscious  innocence  resigns  its  life. — 
So,  man,  on  thee  when  life's  hard  labors  press, 
Let  your  heart  sing,  and  make  the  burden  less. 
When  Mischief's  ill-brewed  rains  have  drenched  it  thro', 
Dry  your  wet  cloak  and  brave  the  storm  anew. 
From  your  own  dog  a  golden  lesson  learn, 
And  ne'er  to  sacred  friendship  traitor  turn. 
When  death  shall  lift  his  hand  to  stop  thy  breath, 
Look  up  with  innocence  and  welcome  death  ! 


SONGS. 


15 


SONGS. 


LAMENT  OF  THE  CHEROKEE. 


AIR  : — 'Exile  of  Erin.' 

0,  SOFT  falls  the  dew,  in  the  twilight  descending, 
And  tall  grows  the  shadowy  hill  on  the  plain ; 
And  night  o'er  the  far  distant  forest  is  bending, 

Like  the  storm-spirit,  dark,  o'er  the  tremulous  main  ; 
But  midnight  enshrouds  my  lone  heart  in  its  dwelling, 
A  tumult  of  woe  in  my  bosom  is  swelling, 
And  a  tear,  unbefitting  the  warrior,  is  telling 
That  Hope  has  abandoned  the  brave  Cherokee  ! 

Can  a  tree  that  is  torn  from  its  root  by  the  fountain, 

The  pride  of  the  valley,  green-spreading  and  fair, 

Can  it  flourish  removed  to  the  rock  of  the  mountain, 

Unwarmed  by  the  sun  and  unwatered  by  care  ? 

Though  Vesper  be  kind  her  sweet  dews  in  bestowing, 

No  life-giving  brook  in  its  shadow  is  flowing, 

And  when  the  chill  winds  of  the  desert  are  blowing, 

So  droops  the  transplanted  and  lone  Cherokee  ! 


172  THE    HARP    AND    PLOW. 

Loved  graves  of  niy  sires  !  have  I  left  you  forever  ? 

How  melted  my  heart  when  I  bade  you  adieu ! 
Shall  joy  light  the  face  of  the  Indian  ? — ah,  never  ! 

While  memory  sad  has  the  power  to  renew. 
As  flies  the  fleet  deer  when  the  blood-hound  is  started, 
So  fled  winged  Hope  from  the  poor  broken-hearted ; 
0,  could  she  have  turned,  ere  for  ever  departed, 

And  beckoned  with  smiles  to  her  sad  Cherokee  ! 

Is  it  the  low  wind  through  the  wet  willows  rushing, 

That  fills  with  wild  numbers  my  listening  ear  ? 
Or  is  some  hermit-rill,  in  the  solitude  gushing, 

The  strange-playing  minstrel,  whose  music  I  hear  ? 
'T  is  the  voice  of  my  father,  slow,  solemnly  stealing, 
I  see  his  dim  form,  where  the  gloom  gathers,  kneeling, 
To  the  God  of  the  white  man,  the  CHRISTIAN,  appealing  ; 
He  prays  for  the  foe  of  the  dark  Cherokee ! 

Great  Spirit  of  Good,  whose  abode  is  the  heaven, 
Whose  wampum  of  peace  is  the  bow  in  the  sky, 

Wilt  Thou  give  to  the  wants  of  the  clamorous  raven, 
Yet  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  my  piteous  cry  ? 

O'er  the  ruins  of  home,  o'er  my  heart's  desolation, 

No  more  shalt  thou  hear  my  unblest  lamentation ; 

For  death's  dark  encounter  I  make  preparation, 
He  hears  the  last  groan  of  the  wild  Cherokee  ! 


THE  ADIEU. 


AIR  : — '  Irish  Emigrant's  Lament.' 

SAD  was  the  hour  when  for  the  sea 

My  Willie  left  his  home  ! 
The  day  was  bright  with  spring's  delight, 

But  round  my  heart  was  gloom. 
I  thought  on  ocean's  perils  wild, 

The  changes,  too,  of  years ; 
That  waters  wide  should  us  divide 

Forever,  were  my  fears. 

I  see  him  as  at  parting,  now  ; 

His  calm  and  manly  air ; 
His  eye  that  glowed,  no  tear  bestowed, 

Yet  sorrow  still  was  there  ; 
He  grasped  me  warmly  by  the  hand, 

He  murmured  but  my  name  : 
The  words  were  few  at  our  adieu, 

For  words  we  could  not  frame. 

The  wind  blows  freshly  from  the  sea, 

A  ship  is  off  the  shore  ; 
But  ah  !  I  know  no  breeze  will  blow 

To  waft  poor  Willie  o'er. 
Full  low  on  ocean's  bed  he  lies, 

Above,  the  billows  play  ; 
The  waters  wide  will  us  divide 

Forever, — till  THE  DAY  ! 

*15 


THE  BANKS  OF  MAUMEE. 


Am  : — '  The  Hermit." 

I  STOOD  in  a  dream  on  the  banks  of  Maumee  ; 

'T  was  Autumn,  and  nature  seemed  wrapt  in  decay ; 
The  wind  moaning  swept  thro'  the  shivering  tree, 

The  leaf  from  the  bough  drifted  slowly  away  ; 
The  gray-eagle  screamed  on  the  marge  of  the  stream. 

The  solitudes  answered  the  Bird  of  the  Free ; 
All  lonely  and  sad  was  tho  scene  of  my  dream, 

And  mournful  the  hour  on  the  banks  of  Maumee. 

A  form  passed  before  me — a  vision  of  one 

Who  mourned  for  his  nation,  his  country,  and  kin  ; 
He  walked  on  the  shores,  now  deserted  and  lone, 

Where  the  homes  of  his  tribe,  in  their  glory,  had  been  ; 
And  thought  after  thought  o'er  his  sad  spirit  stole, 

As  wave  follows  wave  o'er  the  turbulent  sea ; 
And  thus  lamentation  he  breathed  from  his  soul 

O'er  the  ruins  of  home,  on  the  banks  of  Maumee : — 


THE   BANKS   OF   MAUMEE.  175 

As  the  hunter  at  morn,  in  the  snows  of  the  wild, 

Recalls  to  his  mind  the  sweet  visions  of  night 
When  sleep,  softly  falling,  his  sorrows  beguiled, 

And  opened  his  eyes  in  the  land  of  delight, — 
So  backward  I  muse  on  the  dream  of  my  youth ; 

Ye  peace-giving  hours !  0,  when  did  ye  flee  ? 
When  the  Christian  neglected  his  pages  of  truth, 

And  the  Great  Spirit  frowned  on  the  banks  of  Maumee. 

Oppression  has  lifted  his  iron-like  rod 

And  smitten  my  people  again  and  again ; 
The  whiteman  has  said  there  is  justice  with  God, — 

Will  he  hear  the  poor  Indian  before  him  complain  ? 
Sees  he  not  how  his  children  are  worn  and  oppres'd  ? 

How  driven  in  exile  ? — 0  !  can  he  not  see  ? 
And  I,  in  the  garments  of  heaviness  dress'd, 

The  last  of  my  tribe  on  the  banks  of  Maumee  ? 

Ye  trees  !  on  whose  branches  my  cradle  was  hung, 

Must  I  yield  you  a  prey  to  the  axe  and  the  fire  ? 
Ye  shores !  where  the  chant  of  the  pow-wow  was  sung, 

Have  ye  witnessed  the  light  of  the  council  expire  ? 
Pale  ghosts  of  my  fathers,  who  battled  of  yore ! 

Is  the  Great  Spirit  just  in  the  land  where  ye  be  ? 
While  life  lasts  dejected  I  '11  wander  this  shore, 

And  join  you  at  last  from  the  banks  of  Maumee. 


THE  MINUTE-MAN. 


IT  was  on  the  banks  of  Hoosic,  in  days  of  long  ago, 
Where  then,  as  now,  its  waters  bless  the  farmer  as  they 

flow  ; — 

It  was  in  the  vale  of  Hoosic  a  father  and  his  son 
Were  dwelling,  on  the  day  before  the  day  at  Bennington. 

Along  the  river  stretching  was  spread  a  fertile  plain ; 
There  sire  and  son  were  thrusting  in  the  hook  amidst  the 

grain ; 
While  near  at  hand  their  cottage  stood  half  hidden  from 

the  sight, 
By  trees  that  wooed  the  birds  by  day  and  sheltered  them 

by  night. 

The  good  wife  plied  her  needle  within  the  cottage  door ; 

Her  babe  the  cat  was  watching,  catching  flies  upon  the 
floor  ; 

It  was  a  sweet  domestic  scene, — sweet  both  to  sire  and  son, 

That  blessed  them  on  the  day  before  the  day  at  Benning 
ton. 


THE   MINUTE-MAN.  177 

When  suddenly,  and  vision-like,  before  them  there  ap 
peared, 

A  form  of  soldier  bearing,  full  of  martial  presence  reared  ; 
He  was  clad  in  regimentals — a  gleaming  sword  his  pride  ; 
The  father  heard  his  errand,  and  he  laid  his  hook  aside. 

Then  toward  the  cottage  went  the  sire,  with  calm,  deter 
mined  air, 

And  took  from  o'er  the  mantle-tree  his  gun  that  rested 
there ; 

Farewell !  farewell,  dear  wife  !  said  he  ;  farewell,  my 
children  dear ! 

My  country  calls  aloud  for  me,  I  may  not  linger  here  ! 

*  Weep  not  for  me  to  break  mine  heart,'  he  spoke  like 

sainted  PAUL, 
Behold  I  leave  you,  knowing  not  what  thing  shall  me 

befall ; 

My  life  is  staked  for  LIBERTY — in  after  years,  my  son, 
Remember  this,  the  day  before  the  day  at  Bennington  ! 

That  son  is  now  an  aged  man,  his  head  is  silvered  o'er ; 
He  tills  the  same  plantation  that  his  father  tilled  before  ; 
And  lessons  many  he  has  read  in  life's  histronic  page, 
His  words  are  those  of  sound  import,  his  wisdom  that  of 
age. 

He 's  a  lover,  too,  of  LIBERT?  ;  and  to  his  children  tells 
This  reason  why  that  love  so  strong  within  his  bosom  dwells : 
'  Last  time  I  saw  my  sire  alive  was  when  he  took  his  gun, 
And  left  us  on  the  day  before  the  day  at  Bennington.' 


THE  EAGLES  OF  COLUMBIA. 

A    NATIONAL    SONG. 


THE  Eagles  of  Columbia  ! 

How  gallantly  they  fly, 
With  vengeance  in  their  awful  swoop, 

With  lightning  in  their  eye  ! — 
When  perched  upon  our  standard  bright 

Above  the  stripes  and  stars, 
They  shall  wave  o'er  the  brave 

In  the  thunder-storm  of  Mars. 

The  colors  of  Columbia  ! — 

Her  son  who  roams  the  earth, 
Tho'  frozen  at  the  icy  pole, 

Or  scorched  on  Cancer's  hearth, 
Shall  look  upon  them,  and  forget 

His  sufferings  and  woes, 
For  they  wave  o'er  the  brave 

Where  the  breeze  of  ocean  blows. 

The  soldier,  ere  the  signal  flies 

Along  the  waiting  line, 
Beholds  his  country's  bird  with  pride 

And  kindles  at  the  shrine ! 


THE  EAGLES  OP  COLUMBIA.          179 

Resolved  thro'  blood  and  carnage  dire 

To  bear  it  safely,  for 
It  shall  wave  o'er  the  brave 

In  the  sulphur  cloud  of  war. 

The  sailor,  ere  the  foeman  strikes, 

Aloft  shall  glance  his  eye 
To  where,  fast-nailed  for  victory, 

Columbia's  colors  fly ; 
And  when  the  vollied  thunder  breaks, 

Forth-ushering  death  and  woe, 
They  shall  wave  o'er  the  brave 

On  the  gory  decks  below. 

When  Peace,  with  all  her  smiling  train, 

Moves  sweetly  thro'  the  land. 
And  patriots  to  their  homes  retire 

And  sheathe  the  glittering  brand — 
Victoriously  our  Eagles  fly 

When  war's  commotions  cease  ; 
They  shall  wave  o'er  the  brave 

In  the  stilling  beams  of  Peace. 


FREEDOM'S  OWN. 


NEW  ENGLAND  is  a  glorious  land, 

Fast  anchored  by  the  sea  ! 
Her  mountains  high  that  lift  the  sky 

Are  altars  of  the  free  ! 
Are  altars  of  the  free,  and  they 

Are  Freedom's  bulwarks  bold  ; 
Though  all  the  world  defiance  hurled, 

She's  safe  in  her  strong  hold. 

Forth  on  her  mission  round  the  world 

Fair  Freedom  sought  a  home  ; 
Now  paused  and  wrought,  now  battles  fought, 

But  still  compelled  to  roam  ; 
Till  soaring,  eagle-like,  she  saw 

New  England's  hills  appear, 
Then  ceased  her  flight,  and  with  delight 

She  came  and  rested  here. 

And  here  she  built  her  sacred  shrine, 

Here  lit  her  Vestal  flame  ; 
Here  watched  and  feared,  a  race  she  reared, 

And  called  them  by  her  name. 


FREEDOM'S  OWN.  181 

New  England's  sons  are  Freedom's  own, — 

The  tyrant  is  their  scorn  ; 
No  earthly  power  can  chain  an  hour 

The  true  New  England  born. 

New  England's  sons  are  everywhere, 

In  every  clime  they  roam  ; 
They  're  brave,  they  're  strong,  and  never  long 

Forgetful  of  their  home. 
New  England's  dead  are  everywhere, 

In  every  clime  they  rest ; 
And  ocean's  wave  is  th'  mighty  grave 

Of  her  noblest  and  her  best. 

Then  here's  to  Freedom's  blessed  name  ! 

And  here  is  to  her  own  ! 
Yet  land  and  sea  her  own  shall  be, 

And  tyrants  be  unknown. 
We  '11  spread  her  colors  to  the  breeze, 

We  '11  bear  her  eagle  crest ; 
Then  should  she  roam  she  '11  find  a  home 

Wherever  she  may  rest ! 


:• 


DOWN    BY    THE   BROOK   WHERE    WILLOWS 
GREEN. 


DOWN  by  the  brook,  where  willows  green 

Spring  to  the  zephyr  and  the  sun  ; 
Where  the  bright  wavelets,  glancing  seen, 

Eternal  murmur  as  they  run  ; — 
I  pause  to  ponder  on  their  flow  ; 

While  forward  swift  the  waters  run, 
Backward  as  swift  will  memory  go 

To  days  when  life  with  me  begun. 

As  dreamy  music  fills  my  ear, — 

The  voiceful  hum  of  waters  sweet, 
The  long,  bright  days  again  appear 

That  used  my  infant  eyes  to  greet. 
Companions  of  those  golden  hours 

Rise  from  the  past,  and  round  me  stand  ; 
Long  since  they  perished  '  like  the  flowers  !' 

Long  since  they  sought  the  spirit  land  ! 


DOWN   BY   THE   BROOK.  183 

I  love  to  think  upon  those  days ; 

The  early  found,  the  early  lost ; 
Aye  memory  sings  her  sweetest  lays 

When  strung  her  lyre  at  dearest  cost. 
The  cares  of  life  the  present  fill, 

They  all  engross,  the  heart,  the  hand  ; 
But  from  the  past,  at  times,  there  will 

Break  gleamings  like  the  better  land. 


BY  THE  DEEP  NINE !' 


WHEN  wearing  off  the  shore  with  the  breakers  on  the  lee, 
And  shrill  winds  are  piping  to  the  thunder  of  the  sea ; 
As  the  shoal  deeper  grows,  it  becalms  the  sailor's  fears, 
As  trembling  he  listens,  and  the  saving  call  he  hears : — 
'  By  the  deep  nine  !  by  the  deep  nine  !' 

When  murky  is  the  night,  and  the  misty  wind  is  free, 
When  black  scowls  the  sky  above,  and  blacker,  still,  the 

sea  ; 

When  doubtful  is  the  land-fall  that  dimly  looms  a-head, 
Then  ye  '11  heave  to,  my  hearties  ! — bear  a  hand  with 

the  lead : — 

'  By  the  deep  nine  !  by  the  deep  nine  !' 

Lashed  fast  o'er  the  drenching  waves,  the  hardy  sailor 

stands ; 

His  eye  is  quick  and  certain,  and  ready  are  his  hands  ; 
Right   cheerily   o'erhead,    then,   the  plunging   lead  he 

swings, — 

Down,  deeper  down,  it  goes,  and  he  musically  sings  : — 
4  By  the  deep  nine  !  by  the  deep  nine  !' 


'  BY    THE    DEEP    NINE:'  185 

And  ye,  who  are  voyaging  o'er  life's  tempestuous  sea  ! 
Let  judgment  be  your  compass,  your  lead  let  prudence  be ; 
Should  passion's  current  take  you  towards  a  wrecking  reef, 
Be  wise  to  put  about  soon  as  prudence  sounds  relief : — 
'  By  the  deep  nine  !  by  the  deep  nine! ' 

The  gallant  ship,  the  UNION,  our  brave  old  fathers  built ; 
Pier  keel  was  laid  in  heart's-blood  of  willing  martyrs  spilt ! 
Then  beware  !  ye  who  sail  her  along  the  flood  of  time, 
Keep  her  bearings,  keep  her  soundings, — she  '11  float  to 
the  chime : — 

'  By  the  deep  nine !  by  the  deep  nine !' 


16* 


COLUMBIA  RULES  THE  SEA. 


THE  pennon  flutters  in  the  breeze, 

The  anchor  comes  a-peak  ; 
Let  fall  ! — sheet  home  ! — the  briny  foam 

And  ocean's  waste  we  seek. 
The  booming  gun  speaks  our  adieu  ; 

Fast  fades  our  native  shore  ; — 
Columbia  free  shall  rule  the  sea, 

Britannia  ruled  of  yore  1 

We  go  the  tempest's  wrath  to  dare — 

The  billows'  maddened  play  ; 
Now  climbing  high  against  the  sky, 

Now  rolling  low  away  ! 
While  Yankee  oak  bears  Yankee  hearts 

Courageous  to  the  core, 
Columbia  free  shall  rule  the  sea 

Britannia  ruled  of  yore. 

We  '11  bear  her  flag  around  the  world 

In  thunder  and  in  flame  ; 
From  pole  to  pole  sublimely  roll 

The  music  of  her  name. 


COLUMBIA    RULES    THE    SEA.  187 

The  winds  shall  pipe  her  peans  loud, 

The  billows  chorus  roar  ; — 
Columbia  free  shall  rule  the  sea 

Britannia  ruled  of  yore. 

Is  there  a  haughty  foe  on  earth 

Would  treat  her  with  disdain  ? — 
'T  were  better  far  that  nation  were 

Whelmed  in  the  mighty  main  ! 
Should  War  her  demon  dogs  unchain, 

Or  Peace  her  plenty  pour, 
Columbia  free  shall  rule  the  sea 

Britannia  ruled  of  yore. 


THE  OLD  FARMER'S   ELEGY. 


Ox  a  green,  grassy  knoll  by  the  banks  of  the  brook, 
That  so  long  and  so  often  has  watered  his  flock, 
The  old  farmer  rests  in  his  long  and  last  sleep, 
While  the  waters  a  low,  lapsing  lullaby  keep. 

He  has  ploughed  his  last  furrow, — has  reaped  his  last  grain. 

No  morn  shall  awake  him  to  labor  again. 

The  blue-bird  sings  sweet  on  the  gay  maple  bough, — 
Its  warbling  oft  cheered  him  while  holding  the  plough  ; 
And  the  robins  above  him  hop  light  on  the  mold, 
For  he  fed  them  with  crumbs  when  the  season  was  cold. 

He  has  ploughed  his  last  furrow, — has  reaped  his  last  grain, 

No  morn  shall  awake  him  to  labor  again. 

Yon  tree,  that  with  fragrance  is  filling  the  air, 
So  rich  with  its  blossoms,  so  thrifty  and  fair, 
By  his  own  hand  was  planted,  and  well  did  he  say 
It  would  live  when  its  planter  had  mouldered  away  ! 

He  has  ploughed  his  last  furrow, — has  reaped  his  last  grain, 

No  morn  shall  awake  him  to  labor  again. 


THE  OLD  FARMER'S  ELEGY.  189 

There  's  the  well  that  he  dug,  with  its  waters  so  cold, 
With  its  wet,  dripping  bucket,  so  mossy  and  old, 
No  more  from  its  depths  by  the  patriarch  drawn, 
For  '  the  pitcher  is  broken,' — the  old  man  is  gone  ! 

He  has  ploughed  his  last  furrow, — has  reaped  his  last  grain, 

No  morn  shall  awake  him  to  labor  again. 

And  the  seat  where  he  sat  by  his  own  cottage  door, 
In  the  still  summer  eves,  when  his  labors  were  o'er, 
With  his  eye  on  the  moon,  and  his  pipe  in  his  hand, 
Dispensing  his  truths  like  a  sage  of  the  land. 

He  has  ploughed  his  last  furrow, — has  reaped  his  last  grain, 

No  morn  shall  awake  him  to  labor  again. 

'T  was  a  gloom-giving  day  when  the  old  farmer  died  ! 

The  stout-hearted  mourned, — the  affectionate  cried ; 

And  the  prayers  of  the  just  for  his  rest  did  ascend, 

For  they  all  lost  a  BROTHER,  a  MAN,  and  a  FRIEND. 
He  has  ploughed  his  last  furrow, — has  reaped  his  last  grain, 
No  morn  shall  awake  him  to  labor  again. 

For  upright  and  honest  the  old  farmer  was  ; 

His  GOD  he  revered, — he  respected  the  laws  ; 

Tho'  fameless  he  lived,  he  has  gone  where  his  worth 

Will  outshine  like  pure  gold  all  the  dross  of  this  earth. 
He  has  ploughed  his  last  furrow, — has  reaped  his  last  grain, 
No  morn  shall  awake  him  to  labor  again. 


JULY  FOURTH. 


THIS  is  the  morn — the  glorious  morn 
When  FREEDOM  nerved  for  strife  ; 
Put  to  her  lips  her  clarion  horn 
A  nd  woke  a  land  to  life  ! 

Then  let  the  bell  its  music  swell, — 

The  gun  its  thunder  chime  ! 
This  day  of  days  our  children's  praise 
Shall  have  to  latest  time. 

This  is  the  morn — the  glorious  morn 

Broke  scepter  and  the  rod ; 
When  freemen  faced  a  tyrant's  scorn 

And  thanked  ALMIGHTY  GOD  ! 
Then  let  the  bell,  &c. 

This  is  the  morn — the  glorious  morn 

Dispelled  Oppression's  night ; 
When  LIBERTY,  the  heaven-born, 

Baptized  us  into  light. 

Then  let  the  bell,  &c. 


JULY  FOURTH.  191 

This  is  the  day — the  blessed  day 

That  first  our  flag  unfurled  ; 
Spread  forth  its  starry  folds  to  play, — 

The  wonder  of  the  world. 
Then  let  the  bell,  &c. 

This  is  the  clay — the  blessed  day 

When  every  patriot  should 
Think  on  his  sires'  victorious  way 

Thro'  terrors,  fire,  and  blood  ! 
Then  let  the  bell,  &c. 

This  is  the  day — the  blessed  day 

Whose  memories  shall  burn 
Bright  on  my  heart,  till  shrouding  clay 
Shall  '  dust  to  dust'  return  ! 

Then  let  the  bell  its  music  swell — 

The  gun  its  thunder  chime  ! 
This  day  of  days  our  children's  praise 
Shall  have  to  latest  time. 


THE  OLD  POD-AUGER  DAYS. 


I  SAW  an  aged  man  at  work — 

He  turned  an  auger  round  ; 
And  ever  and  anon  he  'd  pause, 

And  meditate  profound. 
Good  morning,  friend,  quoth  I  to  him, — 

Art  thinking  when  to  raise  ? 
0,  no !  said  he,  I  'm  thinking  on 

The  old  '  pod-auger  days.' 

True,  by  the  hardest  then  we  wrought, 

With  little  extra  aid  ; 
But  honor's  were  the  things  we  bought, 

And  honor's  those  we  made. 
But  now  invention  stalks  abroad, 

Deception  dogs  her  ways  ; 
Things  different  are  from  what  they  were 

In  old  '  pod-auger  days.' 

Then  homely  was  the  fare  we  had, 
And  homespun  what  we  wore  ; 

Then  scarce  a  niggard  pulled  the  string 
Inside  his  cabin  door. 


THE   OLD   POD-AUGER  DAYS.  193 

Then  humbugs  did  n't  fly  so  thick 

As  half  the  world  to  haze  ; 
That  sort  of  bug  was  scarcely  known 

In  old  '  pod-auger  days.' 

Then  men  were  strong,  and  woman  fair 

Was  hearty  as  the  doe  ; 
Then  few  so  dreadful  '  feeble'  were, 

They  could  n't  knit  and  sew  ; 
Then  girls  could  sing,  and  they  could  work, 

And  thrum  gridiron  lays  ; 
That  sort  of  music  took  the  palm 

In  old  '  pod-auger  days.' 

Then  men  were  patriots — rare,  indeed, 

An  Arnold  or  a  Burr  ; 
They  loved  their  country,  and  in  turn 

Were  loved  and  blessed  by  her. 
Then  Franklin,  Sherman,  Bittenhouse 

Earned  well  the  nation's  praise  ; 
We  've  not  the  Congress  that  we  had 

In  old  '  pod-auger  days.' 

Then,  l  slow  and  certain '  was  the  word  ; 

Now,  '  dei'l  the  hindmost  take  ;' 
Then  buyers  rattled  down  the  tin  ; 

Now,  words  must  payment  make  ; 
Then,  murder-doing  villians  soon 

Were  decked  in  hempen  bays  ; 
We  did  n't  murder  in  our  sleep, 

In  old  '  pod-auger  days.' 

17 


194  THE   HARP   AND   PLOW. 

So  wags  the  world ; — 'tis  well  enough, 

If  Wisdom  went  by  steam  ; 
But  in  my  day  she  used  to  drive 

A  plain  old-fashioned  team  ; 
And  Justice  with  her  bandage  off 

Can  now  see  choice  in  ways  ; 
She  used  to  sit  blind-fold  and  stern 

In  old  '  pod-auger  days,' 


HOE  OUT  YOUR  ROW.' 


ONE  lazy  day  a  farmer's  boy 
Was  hoeing  out  the  corn, 
And  moodily  had  listened  long 

To  hear  the  dinner  horn. 
The  welcome  blast  was  heard  at  last, 

And  down  he  dropt  his  hoe  ; 
But  goodman  shouted  in  his  ear, 

Hoe  out  your  row  ! — 0, 
Hoe  out  your  row  ! 

Altho'  a  '  hard  one'  was  the  row, 

To  use  a  ploughman  phrase, 

And  the  lad,  as  sailors  have  it, 

Beginning  well  to  '  haze,' — 

'  I  can,'  said  he,  and  manfully 

He  seized  again  his  hoe  ; 
And  goodman  smiled  to  see  the  boy 
Hoe  out  his  row, — 0, 
Hoe  out  his  row. 


196  THE  HARP  AND   PLOW. 

The  lad  the  text  remembered  long, 

And  proved  the  moral  well, 
That  perseverance  to  the  end 

At  last  will  nobly  tell. 
Take  courage,  man  !  resolve  you  ca 

And  strike  a  vig'rous  blow, 
In  life's  great  field  of  varied  toil 

Hoe  out  your  row, — 0, 
Hoe  out  your  row. 


WASHING  BY  THE  BROOK. 


WHERE  the  alders  girt  a  grassy 

Leaf-embowered  nook, 
There  I  spied  a  cottage  lassie 

Washing  by  the  brook. 

Bright  the  wavelets  glanced  beside  her, 

Brighter  was  the  look 
That  she  gave  to  him  who  spied  her 

Washing  by  the  brook. 

Sweet  the  songs  of  birds  around  her, — 

Songs  from  Nature's  book ; 
Sweeter  hers  to  him  who  found  her 

Washing  by  the  brook. 

Heaven  bless  her !  heaven  watch  her ! 

Pride  may  overlook 
But  for  graces  never  match  her, 

Washing  by  the  brook. 

17* 


WHERE  GENTLE  HOUS-A-TONIC   THREADS. 


WHERE  gentle  Hous-a-ton-ic  threads 

Its  pathway  to  the  sea, 
It  mirrors  many  a  flow'ret  sweet 

And  many  a  noble  tree. 
The  flowers  are  the  maidens  fair, 

Old  Berkshire's  boast  and  pride  ; 
And  manhood  is  the  lofty  tree 

Fast  by  the  water  side. 

High  tower  the  hills  above  the  vale 

Where  Housatonic  flows ; 
There  free  the  breeze  of  summer  plays, 

And  pure  are  winter's  snows. 
But  freer  is  the  honest  hand 

That  tills  the  soil  below  ; 
And  purer  is  the  maiden  there 

Than  the  unsullied  snow. 

Firm  stand  Tigh-con-ic's  tablets  high 

O'er  Housatonic's  plain, 
And  Time  upon  their  solid  base 

Shall  try  his  scythe  in  vain. 
But  firmer  is  the  spirit  bold 

That  Berkshire's  freemen  show  ; 
And  fame  shall  sing  of  Berkshire's  fair 

While  time  and  water  flow. 


ASHUELOT  RIVER. 


Am  :— '  Afton  Water.' 

GLIDE  on,  Ash-u-e-lot,  with  music  to  hail 

And  join  the  bright  stream  of  iny  own  native  vale  ! 

I  list  to  thy  murmurs,  I  hear  thee  deplore 

The  nation  that  named  thee ;  they  see  thee  no  more. 

How  sweet  in  the  autumn  to  stray  by  thy  side, 
Beneath  the  smooth  beeches  that  drink  of  thy  tide  ! 
To  hear  the  wind  sigh  for  the  wild  sylvan  chief, 
And  faint,  dreamy  knell  of  the  slow-falling  leaf ! 

Here  came  the  dark  maiden,  in  days  that  are  flown, 
When  painted  for  battle  her  warrior  had  gone, — 
To  muse  o'er  thy  waters,  to  hear  in  their  flow 
The  accents  of  pleasure,  or  sobbings  of  woe. 

When  bright  shone  the  moon,  and  the  bough  scarcely  stir'd, 
And  th'  wolf's  lonely  howl  from  Monadnock  was  heard, 
She  saw  in  thy  mantle  of  mist,  chill  and  gray, 
The  ghost  of  her  warrior  rise  wreathing  away. 


200  THE   HARP   AND    PLOW. 

Still  plays  in  the  breeze,  as  of  yore,  thy  light  wave, 
But  on  thy  green  banks  all  unknown  is  her  grave  ; 
The  ploughboy  turns,  whistling,  some  mouldering  bone,- 
Here  still  flow  thy  waters, — her  grave  is  unknown. 

Glide  on,  Ashuelot,  with  music  to  hail 

And  swell  the  bright  flood  of  my  own  native  vale  ; 

I  list  to  thy  murmurs,  I  hear  thee  deplore 

The  nation  that  loved  thee ;  they  see  thee  no  more, 


LEYDEN  GLEN. 


WHEN  first  thro'  lonely  Leyden  Glen 

I  went  the  wild  surveying, 
Its  channel'd  rocks,  its  sylvan  glooms, 

Its  brawling  torrent  playing ; 
I  there  an  aged  man  espied, 

Beneath  a  hemlock  sitting, 
His  gaze  was  on  the  bubbles  bright 

That  round  its  roots  were  flitting. 

'  Beneath  this  tree,'  the  old  man  said, 

'  A  maiden  and  her  lover 
Once  met  and  linked  the  tender  vows 

That  death  alone  may  sever. 
They  saw  the  future  thro'  the  eye 

Of  hope's  enchanting  vision  ; 
And  all  the  world  before  them  lay 

A  beauteous  field  elysian. 

{  Tho'  we  on  pleasures  past  may  look, 

Or  backward  turn  with  sorrow, 
What  know  we,  creatures  of  to  day, 

About  the  future's  morrow  ? 
The  maid  in  all  her  purity 

Went,  years  ago,  to  glory  ; 
I  yet  am  here,  but  youth  and  love 

Have  with  her  fled  before  me.' 


SONG. 


Where  Liberty  dwells,  there  is  my  country.' — FKA.NKLIN. 

FROM  where  Penobscot's  flood  reflects 

The  morning's  ruddy  beams, 
To  lone  Itaska  lake  that  feeds 

The  infant  King  of  Streams, — 
Vast  region  !  from  whose  ample  midst 

Niagara's  anthem  swells  : 
Here  is  the  home  of  LIBERTY, 

And  here  her  spirit  dwells. 

A  voice  is  in  each  nameless  brook, 

Each  river  of  our  land  ; 
Amidst  the  mountains,  Titan  piled, 

That  loom  cloud-capt  and  grand  ; 
The  breeze  that  rolls  the  prairie  wave, 

This  voiceful  hymning  tells : 
Here  is  the  home  of  LIBERTY, 

And  here  her  spirit  dsvells. 

Within  the  shieling  on  the  hill, 

The  hamlet  in  the  vale  ; 
Within  the  mart  whence  commerce  sets 

The  snowy,  seaward  sail ; 
Within  our  hearts,  my  countrymen, 

A  conscious  feeling  tells  : 
Here  is  the  home  of  LIBERTY, 

And  here  her  spirit  dwells. 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  «  OLD  KNICK.' 


NOT  to  the  celebrated  devil, 
Not  NICK,  thou  big,  hope-blasting  weevil, 
Embodying  all  we  know  of  evil  ; — 

No  !  Goodness  bless  me  ! 
Thou  'It  have  to  use  me  far  more  civil, 
Ere  I  address  thee. 

But  thou  who  dwell'st  in  Gotham  city, 
The  MAN,  warm-hearted,  wise,  and  witty, 
Thou  who  first  read  my  rustic  ditty, 

First  called  me  BARD  ! 
(The  holy  truth  will  sure  acquit  thee 

In  that  regard.) 

Tho'  not  thy  namesake's  kin  or  pet, 
There  's  something  iveird  about  you,  yet ; 
What  Editor  before  could  set 

So  rich  a' Table?' 
Where  could  mere  human  body  get 

The  wherewith-able  ? 

*  L.  GATLORD  CLARK,  Esq.,  editor  of  the  venerable  and  valuable 
Knickerbocker  Magazine  ; — both  himself  and  Maga  familiarly  and 
facetiously  styled  at  times  by  their  thousand  admirers,  '  Knick '  or 
'  Old  Knick.'  Mr.  CLARK  first  bestowed  upon  the  author  the  nom  de 
plume  '  Peasant-Bard.' — See  Knickerbocker  Mag.  vol.  xxxi,  page  183. 


204  THE   HARP  AND   PLOW. 

Oh,  had  I  but  thy  facile  pen  ! 
Thy  fancy  to  direct  it ! — then 
I  'd  hope  to  win  from  fellow  men 
A  lofty  name  ; 
And  leave  life's  mediocral  fen 

For  '  braes  o'  fame  !' 

I  'in  coming  out  an  author,  now, 
In  book  yclept  '  The  Harp  and  Plow.' 
Hopes,  fears  ;  fears,  hopes  ;  around  my  browy 

Weeds  twine,  or  bays  : 
But,  hit  or  miss,  I  '11  make  my  bow 

One  of  these  days. 

My  book  !  with  trembling  I  shall  show  it, 
Lest  you  annihilate  the  poet ; 
But  should  you  any  praise  bestow  it, 

Content  I  am, 
Tho'  every  other  critic  blow  it 

To  Rotterd— m.* 

But  by  thy  worth,  and  fancy  fine, 
By  that  small  share  which  may  be  mine, 
By  all  the  favors  of  the  NINE, 

In  store,  or  given, 
I  wish  thee,  CLARK,  for  thee  and  thine, 

The  smiles  of  Heaven. 

*  This  mode  of  writing  profane  proper  names  is  CLARK'S  own. 


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